


A Mongrel pack of Purebloods

by Fallingtodream



Series: A domesticated lineage [2]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Bottom Clint, Fenrir - Freeform, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallingtodream/pseuds/Fallingtodream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You drugged me?” Clint asks in disbelief.  He tries to hang onto the bag, but the earth tilts on him and he drops to his hands, trying to stay steady.</p><p>He sinks further into the ground, he’s pretty sure he’s falling into dusty pudding and his last conscious thought is, “I’m in so much fucking trouble.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Pedigree. Sorry it took me so long, takes me a bit to edit and proof read and life just gets in the way. If you've read the first one, you'll know that this is going to be dark. It's time to tie up loose ends...shits about to get crazy.

A Mongrel Pack of Purebloods  
Pedigree sequel  
Part 1

 

A year later....  
Clint’s standing in the middle of his soon-to-be new living room, still holding the freshly signed lease papers in the hand hanging at his side, feeling a vague sense of anxiety. It’s a one bedroom, with a solid front door, tastefully painted light grey walls, white carpet with off white vertical blinds in the windows. It’s a nice size, the kitchen has new appliances and the view is great. It’s also, conveniently just a floor below Phil’s own apartment.

Phil smiles as he looks around the empty place and then over to Clint. “We can go shopping for furniture and kitchen supplies on the weekend if you want”

Clint’s brows furrow, he doesn’t want to go shopping. He understands why having his own place is required, that he can’t keep his room at Shield and it’s a good cover for why the both of them often travel to and from work together. But....It’s empty and foreign and still smells of the previous occupants. And he’s never lived on his own before. 

Phil pauses before adding, “Or we can order what you want online and have it delivered.” 

Clint looks over and consciously relaxes his shoulders, least he totally give away his misgivings about the apartment. “That would be better, shopping...sucks.” He shakes his head. Nope, there was no way he was going to spend a day walking around stores looking like an idiot trying to pick out what you were supposed to have. What were you really supposed to fill a place with? Coulson’s was so....warm and personalized. He didn’t really have anything of his own to put here.

Phil glances at Clint before nodding, knows the younger man is hesitant about the move. But it’s for the best, this is what adults did, they get their own place and learn how to live independently. And at twenty-five, Clint is past the age of learning to live on his own. Plus he’s right up stairs, when he’s home and has free time they’ll be together like usual.

Clint looks over and then back down at the lease papers in his hand. “So, can I stay at Shield until everything ordered has arrived?”  
Phil reaches out and bumps Clint’s knuckles lightly with his own and waits until the younger man looks up at him. “Of course.” He smiles. “Shouldn’t be too long until we get everything in here, you’ll like having your own place.”

Clint nods and schools his face into something he hopes looks relaxed and happy, it’s what Coulson wants to see; and is rewarded by the pleased look on his handlers face. 

 

The following weekend, Phil sits down at the computer with Clint and helps him furnish his new apartment. Clint really doesn’t care what he gets, so long as it’s not anything overly dark, masculine or opulent. 

Near the end of the month everything Clint’s ordered finally shows up and he is the proud owner of a tastefully decorated, if sparse apartment. For the bedroom he gets a queen bed with a low, simple grey wood frame, side table and a set of drawers; all clean lines and light in color. In the living room a plush sofa, coffee table, book shelf and no TV. The kitchen is stocked with the basics and a small kitchen table sits off to the side. The place smells mostly of factory new wood, plastic and fabric now. Which means, the day after the last of his ordered house wares arrive; he moves in. He packs up everything he owns, which amounts to two duffle bags and clears out of his room in Shield headquarters, which has been his home for the last five years. The process is anti-climatic and sort of feels like he’s checking-in to a hotel. He enters the darkened apartment alone, flicks on the living room light and goes to drop his bags in the bedroom.

He walks around his new place, running his hand over counters and furniture as he paces around. It’s quiet and foreign, it doesn’t smell like home and as the light in the sky slowly fades, it feels smaller. He forces himself to stop pacing and to sit on his new, clean sofa. He sits there and mulls over what to do while idly picking at the corner of the lap blanket draped over the back of the sofa. He sits there in the dully lit room, feeling antsy for probably far too long before heaving himself up and grabbing one of the ten lonely books on his book shelf. 

The quietness is oddly irritating, the words blur on the page unread, as the book proves an unsatisfying distraction. While he lived in Shield barracks, it wasn’t a problem when he had time to kill. Shield was never quiet, people coming and going at all hours. He would wonder over to the range or the gym and sometimes, although rare; one of the recreation areas. The Mess Hall was always open, and when Coulson was working and alone, he’d hang out in his office.

He generally had more free time than his Handler, who often worked longer days, co-ordinating other teams and managing operations Clint wasn’t a part of. Which meant Coulson often wasn’t around much. Clint still trained with other operators, and was becoming damn good at infiltration and information gathering on the ground. But that still left days with not much to do. 

By ten o’clock he sighs, knowing by now it’s too late to expect Phil’s company; who is either still at Shield or home. He could text and ask, but he knows Phil is working on a project and won’t want to be distracted. 

He pushes off of the sofa and makes his way to the darkened kitchen for a glass of water, and has to search through the cupboards to find the glasses. Everything in here is new, too clean, too.....unfamiliar. He shakes his head with an irritated huff and thinks, ‘Fuck it”. In a few days it’ll be the weekend and he can go upstairs and stay with Phil for a couple nights. It’ll be fine, a few days of boredom is fine. Yup totally fine. 

The light from the living room lamp glints off the stainless steel faucet as he fills his glass with water from the tap. Maybe he should learn to cook now, it’s his own kitchen, won’t matter if he messes it up a little. His stomach growls and he looks over to the stove. Cooking is apparently going to be necessary, with not being able to take the elevator down to the mess, which by the way, sucks. He drains the glass; the tepid water fills his belly but is wholly unsatisfying, with a sigh he sets the empty glass in the sink. He walks through the living room to turn the lamp off before striding to the bedroom in the dark. He runs his fingers along the walls, he can see well enough from the ambient light coming in from the windows, but it’s reassuring in an odd way.

He strips and crawls into bed and lays there, waiting for sleep. He can hear a car horn outside in the distance, a female voice talking- somewhere close, probably from one of the balconies. Sirens wailing in the distance and somebody’s television drift in through the cracked bedroom window. The breeze that puffs past the window in lazy flutters carries with it the smell of cooking, garbage and cigarette smoke. His sheets thankfully smell of familiar laundry detergent and fabric softener, he barriers his nose in them and inhales. The sounds change but oddly stay the same, and eventually he slips into slumber.

He’s up early the next morning, showers, dresses and rummages around in the kitchen looking for something to eat. Leaning down to peer into the bright, coldness that is his fridge, he glares at its contents. It’s stocked, but with things that should be cooked. Irritated he grabs an apple out of the crisper and toes the fridge door shut and looks through the cupboards for food. It’s the same thing, items that need to be cooked; pasta, canned stuff, something that looked like rice? Tea (why did he have tea?) peanut butter...wait, where was the bread? 

He nearly jumps when there’s a knock on his door, turning he spots bananas on the counter-score! Ripping two off the bunch, he opens the door to let Phil in.

Phil smiles as he steps into the apartment, looking around quick before settling on Clint. “Good morning how was your first night?” 

Clint swallows the chunk of apple he’s chewing; it gives him that extra moment to evaluate Phil, who looks alert and expectantly waiting for an affirmative reply. “Good. It’s ah, nice to have more room.” He grins, taking another bite of apple. His answer seems to please Phil.

“Good, I’m glad you’re settling in. You’re going to love having your own place.” Phil glances down at his watch. “You ready to go?”

Clint nods and they head to the elevator and down to the garage. The next day Clint takes transit home after stalling as long as he can waiting for Phil, who tells him to leave. It takes him longer to get home on the train, but he enjoys the walk from the station to the apartment, it at least kills some time. It’s time where he won’t be cooped up staring at the walls. 

Friday get’s derailed when Phil has to stay and wrap up whatever he’s working on. Clint walks all the way home and picks up a loaf of bread for his peanut butter. Saturday he’s up early and waits somewhat impatiently for Phil. By mid-morning Phil calls and asks Clint to join him upstairs, and holy shit he’s been waiting all morning for this. He showers, brushes his teeth and briskly walks out of his apartment. He’d jog, but he’s aware that would be weird.

He has a key, but knocks and waits to be let in. Phil opens the door and Clint walks in already grinning, head slightly bowed but eyes still up and focused until the door closes. He looks around, breathes in deeply and smiles fully, turning to face Phil who smiles back. Belatedly greeting Phil with a rumbled, “Morning.”

Phil walks over and gathers Clint into his arms, sliding his hands down Clint’s muscled back to settle on narrow hips. “Have you eaten? I was going to make brunch.”

Clint leans forwards and glides his lips along the prickly stubble of Phil’s jaw, inhaling the warm, musky scent that settles the gnawing unease that’s been sitting in his belly all week. He continues to the softness of Phil’s lips, where he nips and licks into a heated, open-mouthed kiss. He wants to run his teeth over strong, bare shoulders, to nip at warm, unyielding skin. Phil’s cotton shirt is soft under the pads of his fingers, the muscle firm and substantial where he moves to grip Phil’s shoulders. He loves Phil’s solid build, loves the smell that is uniquely him and the throaty groan that trembles out when he does something especially pleasing for him. His cock thickens, the thrum of arousal quickening his pulse. God he loves days off. He stills, and asks, “How about Lunch?” It comes out sounding hopeful.

Phil’s fingers tighten around Clint’s hips, pulling the younger man more closely against him, pressing his quickly hardening cock into the answering bulge in Clint’s jeans. “Lunch does sound better.” His hands slip under the hem of Clint’s shirt and slide up over the rises and dips of well defined abs. Slides them up over the hard nubs of nipples and the hardness of pectoral muscle, digs his fingers in, feeling the firmness there before dipping back down to curl around the narrow waist just above Clint’s hips. He tightens his fingers again; loving the solid feeling of the body under his hands. He pushes back, guiding Clint back against the kitchen counter. 

Clint goes where he’s moved, stopping when his ass hits the solid edge of the tiled top. He doesn’t miss a beat, still latched on to the wet heat and taste of Phil’s mouth. Tries to follow with his lips when Phil leans away, opening his eyes at the disappearance. Phil’s hands gather the hem of his shirt and tug upwards and Clint obediently raises his arms. The shirt falls haphazardly to the floor where Phil’s own cotton top quickly follows.

He watches as Phil undresses him, as hands undo his jeans and pull the silky hard length of him out, groans when calloused fingers squeeze and pull at him. Belatedly he moves to reciprocate, but Phil’s already pulling the elastic waist of his own sleep pants down. Clint gropes at both Phil’s hips and cock, trying to pull him inwards, wanting more contact. The salty, musky smell of arousal fills his nose and causes his cock to twitch. Phil obliges and leans further into him, pressing him back into the counter harder, capturing his mouth again in a heated kiss that’s mostly teeth and forceful pressure.

Phil breaks away, leans back and looks his fill at the young, muscled blond currently half naked against his counter. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this.” He’s so hard. “Turn around.” Clint complies, twisting around so he’s now bent over the counter, hands braced on the flat top, back arched and head tilted back, looking at Phil.

The sight makes Phil’s dick throb with want. He takes a step to the stove and grabs the olive oil and coats his fingers. He strokes his cock with, perfunctory, oily fingers and then rubs two fingers around Clint’s puckered hole; his other hand is griped around Clint’s left hip. He moves his slick fingers back to grip the base of his cock and shifts forward to nudge the tip against Clint’s anus, and gently pushes forward.

Clint holds himself still, shoes still on and jeans half way down his thighs. His cock is angled downwards and presses against the bottom cupboard door, it’s cold but smooth. His hip bones are just touching the edge of the counter with the way he’s bent over with his hips angled back. Waiting, waiting for Phil to slide into him, and carefully relaxes as he feels the mushroomed tip force it’s way oh-so slowly past the ring of muscle which twinges just a little. He breathes out slowly and groans, feeling Phil’s fat cock stretch him, filling him; it’s intense, hot and makes his toes curl. He barely feels balls touch his own before Phil pulls out and thrusts back in quicker, with more force that pushes his hip bones into the counter. The unyielding edge digs into him uncomfortably, but the full body flush when Phil thrusts balls deep into him, still makes him grunt in pleasure. 

But as each thrust in pushes his hips harder into the counter it becomes a little more painful. He tries to tilt backwards without being too obvious, but the angle he’s standing at with his palms flat on the counter, doesn’t give him much traction. He drops to his elbows, and shifts his feet the slightest bit backwards. Braced better this way, his hip bones aren’t taking a beating anymore. And it changes the angle of Phil’s thrusts, slides the thick length over that perfect spot inside of him, his cock wetly sliding against the cupboard. “Ah, fuck yeah, just like that.” It’s good, the sounds of skin slapping skin, the heavy breathing, the smell of sweat and Phil; all adds to the slowly building pressure in his balls.

The pace is quick, Phil’s broad dick smoothly sliding out to push wetly back in, he closes his eyes and moves so he can awkwardly get a hand around his own dick. Pulling slowly on it, slower than he’s being fucked because it feels too good, so good he’s not going to last long. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come.” There’s a moment where he clenches his fingers around the base of his dick, wanting to wait, it feels so good and he’s not a big fan of being fucked after he orgasms. He’s too sensitive and it gets irritating fast, but he’s too close and logic slips away like sand through open fingers. He moans, body stiffening from tightening muscles as he strokes his cock awkwardly, the edge of the counter and cupboard hampering his movements. He groans loudly through the first big wave of release, forehead dropping to the counter top as he rides out the abrupt jolts of his orgasm.

He’s shoved roughly forward into the edge of the counter by Phil, whose hands clench tightly around his hips. He pushes back again and braces himself, as Phil thrusts deeply into him a few more times, riding his own release with a satisfied moan. 

Phil huffs out a groan, and leans down to rest his forehead between Clint’s sweaty shoulders. “Jesus, you clenched so tight around me. It feels so good to be inside you.” He takes a few deep breaths, before straightening and looking around for the hand towel. 

Clint grins. “S’good, I like you where you are.” The mess on his hand is starting to cool. “Uh, there paper towel or something near-by?”

Phil spots the hand towel and grimaces; it’s not where it’s supposed to be. “Yeah, hold on.” He gently pulls out of Clint’s tight heat, and takes a step over to where the paper towels are and rips a few sheets off and hands them to Clint, and then rips a few more off the roll to clean himself. Balling the soiled paper up, he throws it into the trash under the sink, then washes his hands before pulling up his pants and gathers his shirt up off the ground.  
Clint wipes his hand and dick clean, pulls up his pants and kneels down to clean his release off of the cupboard door and the few spots on the floor. Standing, he throws the paper in the trash and also washes his hands before moving to the door to toe off his shoes.

Phil takes a moment to admire the play of muscle in Clint’s back and shoulders before turning back to the fridge. “So lunch, any requests?”

Clint looks over and smiles. “Nah, anything you make is good.” He grabs his shirt and pulls it over his head and settles on the chair at the counter and watches Phil sort out lunch.

Phil turns on his Ipod and music fills the space, a counter-point to the clanking of cookware and the sizzle of bacon. “There’s a Show and Shine in Auburn today, I thought we could go down and have a look. They have a little bit of everything at this one, and it’s a street fair.” He reaches into the top cupboard to pull out the coffee beans and grinder.

Clint doesn’t have much interest in cars and doesn’t see the appeal in the old ones. “Sure, sounds good.” Maybe they’ll have those mini donut trucks; he loves the cinnamon sugar ones. 

Phil smiles, “Great. It’s supposed to be sunny today, it’ll be nice spending the afternoon outside. There’s a flea market too, I’d like to have a look, you never know what you’ll find. One year I found a rare Captain America card, sure it wasn’t in mint shape, but it was a great find. “ He finishes with the coffee maker and flicks the switch on. 

Clint basks in this moment of contentment, of listening to the warm cadence of Phil’s voice, the smell of cooking filling the apartment, and of being able to just sit and enjoy it. “Yeah, flea market sounds interesting.” He could care less, he finds they smell funky and the people are weird, but whatever.

Phil looks up and over at Clint smiling. “Oh good.” He turns and continues with lunch.

 

The day is hot and sunny; the Car show is busy with hundreds of people milling about the street. Some of the cars are brightly colored, some not, there’s old and new, motorcycles and food trucks. The Flea market is just as busy and mostly filled with what Clint would kindly call, junk. Some of it is new or unique, but most of it is simply just cheap. But he doggedly trails beside Phil who’s genuinely enjoying it all, Clint’s just happy to be out.

By the time they get home it’s dinner time and Phil starts cooking for them. They spend the rest of the evening at home. Phil turns on the TV and sits there with him for a little while before pulling over his brief case and flipping through papers. 

Clint obediently sits up and moves slightly over to the other side of the sofa to give him more room to work. He settles back comfortably before picking up the remote to lower the volume and flick through the channels, he settles on some cheesy horror movie. Near mid-night the movie ends and Phil gathers up the slightly spread out pile of papers and puts it all back neatly.

Phil looks over at Clint who is snuggled into the cushions, a small smile tugging at his lips, the warm feeling in his chest is definitely happy. He loves how easy it is between them; Clint understands work comes first, never complains or demands things he’s not sure he can give. What they have is good. “Ready for bed?” 

Clint nods, stretches and grabs the remote to turn the TV off. He’s starting to reconsider his decision not to buy a TV. It’s been awfully quiet in his apartment. With Drummel, it was always on, and a stressful distraction when he needed his attention to be on his emotionally unstable owner. Maybe he’s being overly worried that it’ll feel wrong in his own place. It’s different with Phil, who makes it warm, a totally different experience than with Drummel. 

He follows Phil to the bedroom, shucks his clothes and crawls into bed. The sheets are cool at first but warm quickly with the combined heat of both their bodies. He curls onto his side and drags the pillow under his head. He moans happily as Phil’s arm snakes over his ribs and hauls him backwards into the solid heat of Phil’s chest, their legs twining together. He’ll gladly live in his own apartment, learn to cook and find a hobby, if he can have this. Life was good; he could deal with a bit of boredom.

The weekend passes too quickly, but Monday is the start of a new training program for electronic security systems. It’s long days which at times are frustrating because he’s still not great with computers. At night he tries his hand at cooking, it’s hit and miss and he’s learning that a lot of it is timing. He buys a TV and eats what’s edible from his foray in the kitchen. He still feels isolated in his apartment, but tries to ignore it the best he can.

On Friday he’s called into Coulson’s office in the late afternoon when he’s in the middle of his break from class. He knocks, walks in and sighs as he all but plops down on the sofa. It smells like him, and has bits of black wolf hair still clinging to the fabric, it makes him smile. Oh yeah, the sofa is totally his. Coulson is flipping through a folder and pulling out a stapled stack of papers.

“We’re going to Vienna tomorrow, here’s your briefing packet.” Coulson slides the papers over and waits for Clint to get up and grab them and sit back down before continuing. “There have been whispers that things aren’t as they seem with the new nuclear facility that Iran is building. I have a meeting with one of the board of Directors on Saturday to discuss what concerns the IAEA have. From there we’ll have a week to investigate the legitimacy of these concerns before the IAEA hosts a large social gala, where I’ll be able to meet the representatives from other countries. All the relevant details you need are in your briefing, I can go over anything you need clarification with tomorrow.” Coulson pauses before adding, “I’m sorry to take you away while you’re mid-way through your class.”

Clint shakes his head. “Nah, I can retake it later. Should I go now, or do you have time for Lunch?” Fuck, thank god for missions. One of the dick-heads he took basic with when he first started Shield, is in his class, plus his culinary attempts in the kitchen aren’t as thrilling as he’d hoped it would be. Being domestic isn’t that much fun. 

Coulson shakes his. “I have too much to do today, maybe dinner if you’re still around?” He doesn’t think it’s relevant to share that he had a quick bite to eat in the mess with Maria a couple hours ago. If he had time, he’d still have a snack while Clint ate lunch.

“I’ll probably be here until around seven, I can come...” There’s a knock at the door. He stops and glances over briefly, fingers tightening around his briefing packet and stands up, it’s obviously time to go. 

Coulson looks over at Clint. “I’ll call you if I’m done by seven.” He clears the folders and paper work relating to their mission quickly off of his desk before calling out, “Come in.”

Clint has to wait for the other Agent to enter and move away from the door before he can leave, he looks over and nods once and says, “Agent Coulson.” Before closing the door behind himself. His stomach growls in hunger, but he’s loathed to go to the mess, the monkey dick from his class will most likely be there, along with his asshole friends. It’s bullshit he doesn’t want to deal with, and he’s done a good job of mostly avoiding them for the last couple of years. He sighs, if he hurries he might have time to run down the block to the cafe on the corner and grab a sandwich.

 

On Saturday morning before the break of dawn, they’re on a commercial flight to Vienna, sitting in business class. Clint appreciates the upgrade, he hates being confined to small spaces, unable to stretch his legs. The black writing on the dull pages of the paperback book he’s holding blur, eyes sightlessly staring at the words. Memory is sometimes malignant and sneaky in its sudden emergence. He fidgets in his seat as the memory of cages, trunks, kennels and kneeling without being able to move becomes uncomfortably vivid. He can feel the pressure on his knees and the burn of cramping muscles, the need to move a heavy, building pressure in his chest, slowly eating away at fraying nerves until he’s sinking into that dark pit of helplessness.

He inhales and consciously tries to relax rigged muscles; unclenching his fingers from the slightly bent book. Exhaling slowly, he looks over slightly to his left, to Phil’s perfectly pressed slacks and takes another breathe. The tension calms as Coulson’s musky smell and nearness soothes the tension rolling along his nerves. The plane smells of chemical air, too many bodies, bad breath, booze and decaying food. He’s an adult, on a plane with Coulson, all is good.

Coulson looks over, distracted from his work on his laptop by Clint’s shifting and slightly raises a brow in question. Not so much in concern, he doesn’t see how there could be a problem already. It’s a ten hour flight, and they’ve only been in the air for an hour. 

Clint catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and hikes his shoulders up and gives a sheepish smile. “Sorry, s’good book.” He looks away first and goes back and re-reads the page he’s been staring at. With his focus back on the book, he relaxes and ignores the memories until they fade away. He reclines his seat back after a couple of hours and naps, waking up to Coulson’s gentle nudge against his hand to the plane starting its decent.

 

Austria is beautiful with its imperial buildings, clean winding streets and horse drawn carriages. Everything looks old, but it’s all well kept and charming. This is probably what people talk about when they say Europe has so much culture and vibrancy. Most of the places Clint has been to in Europe have been old, cluttered and dirty, not usually the nicer areas given his line of work.

Coulson drives them to their hotel in the Car they rented at the airport, navigating the streets like they’re familiar territory. Clint admires the view and listens to the radio quietly playing, the wind blowing his hair back from the open window. 

One of the perks of Coulson’s cover as a Liaison for the US to the IAEA board of Governors is swank accommodations. His cover as Coulson’s body guard isn’t as glamorous, but it’s familiar. The valet opens his door and takes their luggage, and he trails to the side and a step behind Coulson, as is customary. He waits at the front desks as Coulson checks them in, taking the time to slowly scan the lobby. Their Hotel is opulent, six stories of historic architecture that doesn’t even compare to what’s inside. It’s huge, marble floors, stair cases, balconies with iron railings, chandeliers and everything sparkles and shines, there’s glass doors and display cases everywhere. Everything is done in whites, gold and greens, it’s elegant and noble without being terribly stuffy. He can’t wait to see their rooms.

When they make it to their room on the top floor, he’s not disappointed. The suite is huge, two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, two bathrooms and a large terrace. He grins and flops down into one of the beige stuffed chairs. “Tell me we get to stay in hotels like this the whole time.”

Coulson looks around before making his way over to the large dining table that would easily seat eight, to set his laptop and files on. “Don’t count on it. But if you want to make the most of this, I’d order room service. The food here, is supposed to be unsurpassed in quality.”

Clint smiles and pushes to his feet in search of the menu, he strolls around the entire suite and stops in the bathroom. “Holy shit, my bedroom is the size of this bathroom!” His voice echoes loudly in the large tiled room as he nearly yells so Phil can hear him in the other room. “Hey Phil, there’s hand rails and a seat in the shower. Fuck it, I’m gonna eat dinner in here. Naked.”

Phil smiles to himself, amused with Clint’s exuberant delight with the room, he hopes it’ll last a bit longer. Tomorrow will be a long boring day for the archer, and tiring for him. The Board meeting tomorrow will be an all day affair, as the Board of Governors only meet five times a year, there’s a lot to go through. And after that he has three private meetings scheduled with members from other countries. The following day is the Gala, where he’ll hopefully be able to talk to the Director General and make introductions to a few other members. 

Room service shows up promptly an hour later and Phil’s pleasantly surprised with the meal Clint’s ordered for him. They eat at the huge, oval dining table. They plow through their food maybe a little too quickly and he calls to have the dishes taken away. He preps what he needs for tomorrow before making his way to one of the bedrooms, it’s late and he’s tired. He slips into the covers and takes a moment to appreciate the truly amazing mattress and sheets while he waits for Clint to finish up in the bathroom. 

Phil listens to the soft pad of bare feet on plush carpet as Clint makes his way over. He pulls back the blankets and smiles as the young archer crawls in beside him. He reaches over to the bedside lamp and flicks the switch, snuggling back onto his side he drapes his arm around the solid muscle of Clint’s chest and hauls him close, pushing his nose into the short hairs at the back of the blonds neck. He lazily drags his finger tips across smooth skin and murmurs “Good night.” 

Clint hums appreciatively, “Night.” Soaking in the feeling of warmth along his back and the slow, small circles Phil’s fingers draw on his chest. Waits until they slow and then stop and the rhythm of slumbering breath ghosts along his neck before he drifts off as well.

The next day a driver shows up to take them to the IAEA International Center, located by the Danube River. It’s a collection of tall and squat buildings, some curved and all beautifully designed, the area around them is dotted by manicured green space and the whole area is like a small city of International organizations. They’re greeted at the main entrance by a petite woman dressed professionally and shown up to the meeting room, where Clint is not allowed to enter. He moves to stand against a wall and wait, something he’s intimately familiar with. The lobby is a huge open space, dotted with tables and comfortable looking chairs. Large windows look out onto the river and provide a scenic backdrop. The other security and PA’s and whatever other personal assistants some of the other members have following them around, are mostly all sitting around waiting. The smell of coffee wafts thickly in the air, along with perfume and cologne, strong cleaning product and something else he can’t identify, before being slowly sucked up into the ventilation system.

Hours pass before he concedes and finds a vacant chair away from everybody else, there’s no point in standing around here, it’s very unlikely anything is going to happen. At noon, the board members break for lunch and he waits where he is for Coulson to collect him. Coulson doesn’t really stop as he walks towards and then past him, but tilts his head slightly in the gesture to follow. He follows quietly, until they reach a restaurant in the building and sit at a table. 

Coulson is quiet and calm and waits until the waitress comes over and gives them both menu’s, she walks away and he flips through for a moment before laying it flat on the table. Clint keeps an eye on their surroundings but follows suit and goes through the menu and finds an item before sliding it over top of the other one. Coulson sips his water and waits patiently until the waitress comes back and they order.

He looks up at Clint and slides a small piece of paper over to him, there are two names written in a neat scrawl. “I need you to visit each of their hotel rooms this afternoon and look around for anything to do with Iran, nuclear energy or Russia. Be out before today’s conference ends.”

Clint pockets the paper. “So done by five and meet you back at the Hotel?” He doesn’t have much time, He’ll have to call HQ to get the techs to find out where the two board members are staying and taxi over. Fuck, he still has to stop back at their room and grab the tools he’ll need and that’s going to eat up more time. 

Coulson nods and then glances up as he spots the waitress coming over with two plates. “If you run into trouble, call.” The clank of the dishes sliding heavily onto the table halts conversation, but she doesn’t linger, just smiles and walks briskly away.

Clint stands up, and grabs his sandwich off the plate. “Yes Sir.” He smiles, before waving his sandwich in the air; as a farewell. “Back in a jiffy.” Finally, something to do.

In the five hours he has, he manages to travel back to the heart of Vienna to their Hotel to grab his stuff which is thankfully in the hotel district. Which means the other two IAEA Board members, are in posh Hotels close by. His second stop just down the block doesn’t take long on foot. He swipes a card key for the elevator that he pockets from one of the cleaning staff carts down a hallway and slips into the room Mr. Aref, from Iran is staying in. He searches the room, finds a laptop and some folders. He flips through the papers, scanning for key words and takes photos of the ones he decides could be important. He opens the laptop and turns it on, pulls out a thumb drive and pops it into the laptop, it’s a self containing search and copy program, which means all he has to do, is wait. Two thumbs up for Shield IT techs.  
He paces through the large suite while he waits for the drive, looking for anything else. He opens drawers, cabinets and even the fridge. All he finds is a few personal grooming items and a pair of women’s pink panties wrapped around an equally pink lipstick. He decides not to wonder about that too much.

Back in the living area, he closes the laptop, pulls the blinking thumb drive out and puts everything back how he found it. He walks confidently out of the Hotel and catches a taxi to his last stop two blocks away. It’s a short distance, but he doesn’t want to be seen walking around downtown between both Hotels.

He does the same thing here as the last place, swipes the key cards and nonchalantly walks to the suite on the top floor. Pauses outside the door to Mr. Arnulf from Germany, and listens for a minute, but hears nothing. He swipes the card, twists the handle and slips inside, where he pauses again to listen. There’s a faint jingle and the smell of dog in the room. He curses silently and pads softly into the suite and breathes in a little deeper. He peeks around the corner towards the overly opulently furnished living area, decorated in deep reds and golds and furnished with regal sofas and chairs surrounding a large, low coffee table. On one of the sofas is a mound of black and tan fur.

He’s about to back up and rethink his approach when the dog raises his head to look at him, ears perked up and nose twitching. There’s a moment of stillness before a growl echoes clearly through the room. “Fuck.” Is all he has time to mutter before he twists and turns to the left to run towards the bathroom he can see at the end of the hall. He can hear the click of nails on the gleaming tile floors as the German Sheppard runs after him, gaining quickly. He all but leaps into the bathroom and towards the open doorway that leads into the master bedroom and slams it shut behind him. The dog barks and growls, nails scratching at the door. Clint doesn’t stop running and races out the main bedroom door which opens into the living room and up the hall to the bathroom again. 

The Sheppard hears him and comes flying out the bathroom door, they collide with a deep thump; he gets both hands around the dogs neck, gripping fur and flesh, keeping the Sheppard’s snapping jaws away from his face. Drool flies around, mingled with the noise of one pissed-off animal, as he struggles to half carry, half drag the Sheppard into the bathroom. And it’s hard, the dog never ceases its struggles, back paws digging for purchase on the slippery tile, while the front ones dig, hold and push at his arms, chest and manage to scratch his neck. 

Once in the bathroom he forces the dog down on to the floor, crawling on top of its back, he struggles to keep a hand clamped on its muzzle and snake the other around its neck and squeezes. It’s quick, only seconds tic by before the animal all but slumps, completely unconscious. Clint doesn’t waste time; he gets up quickly and shuts the door, effectively locking the dog in the bathroom.

He darts a glance at his watch, worried about the time and sighs in relief, it’s only half past three. He searches the suite, which is even bigger than the last one, two bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, a study, kitchen and two bedrooms. He snoops around the living areas but there’s nothing more interesting than a couple books, the dogs food bowels and a basket of apples. In the bedroom however, he finds an excessive amount of clothes in the closet and folded in the dresser drawers. The bedside reveals a huge, blue double ended, floppy dildo. He just shakes his head while staring at it, what the hell is with these guys? He closes the drawer and finds a laptop but no briefcase or papers of any kind. He pops in the drive and waits, and listens as the Sheppard trapped in the bathroom regains consciousness and starts barking.

He taps his fingers on his thigh waiting, edgy with all the noise the dog is making, he needs to leave. The drive blinks red, he pulls it out and pockets it, then shuts the lid. He frowns and looks down at himself, the left pants pocket of his black dress pants is ripped, so is the collar of his black dress shirt, but the tactical vest under his black, fitted jacket saved it from further damage. The jacket however is missing a button, is smeared with drool and covered with dog hair, so are his pants. “Fuck. Fucking dogs.” He spits it out.

He’s got to somehow let that little asshole out of the bathroom without getting mauled. Swiping ineffectively at the mess on his jacket his fingers brush a lump in the pocket. “God dammit, mother fuck.” He’s got two tranqs in his jacket pocket. He fumes silently, fucking dogs. He makes his way back to the bathroom.

He uncaps the needle from the short, inch long injector and braces a hand on the handle of the bathroom door, takes a breathe and yanks the door open. The dog flies out, and Clint isn’t quick enough to avoid the jaws that clamp onto his forearm, he jabs the dart into the dogs neck and then sets to prying the little beasts jaws off his arm. The sedative works fast and in moments the dog releases him and wobbles to the ground, collapsing to the tiled floor with a whimper. He drags the mutt into the bedroom and arranges it beside the bed. 

His arm throbs; his jacket is ripped and covered in saliva and droplets of his own blood. He curses again, and makes sure not to leave any traces behind in the suite, now including his blood and bits of torn clothing. He straightens himself out the best he can, he might be able to pull-off ‘slightly rumpled’, he’s wearing all black, from a distance people probably won’t notice. Probably. He takes his jacket and tac vest off, and drapes them both over his damaged arm so that only his coat shows. He holds his arm in such a way as to hide the torn pants pocket, which is luckily the same side as his injured arm. He takes a damp cloth and tries to wipe as much drool and dog hair off as possible and the blood from his scratched neck, before stuffing the cloth into his coat pocket.

He slips out of the room, down the stairs and takes the back exit out of the hotel and hails another taxi. Nobody looks at him twice as he makes his way back into his own Hotel from the back, and again takes the stairs up to his floor. As soon as he gets into their suite, he dumps his jacket over the back of the dining room chair, drops the thumb drives on top of Coulson’s brief case and continues to the bathroom. He smells like dog and sweat. He strips and walks into the huge shower, which is amazing and helps his mood a tiny bit. The four holes in his arm are barely bleeding, just sluggishly welling now. He cleans it under the hot spray of the shower. The bruising is spectacular though. There a couple pink scratches at the bottom of his throat that angle down a few inches to his chest, and a few on his legs and other arm. 

 

Coulson makes it back around six, looking crisp and cool, he looks over at Clint who’s on the large, white sofa in the living room paging through a magazine. “Everything good?”

Clint nods towards the Briefcase at the desk, but avoids eye contact. “Yes Sir.”

Coulson walks over to where the camera and two thumb drives are sitting, and lets out a breath while turning slightly to lean against the table and look at the slumped figure of his agent. “Everything ok?” The tone is softer.

Clint shrugs one shoulder, “Yup, just got mauled by a dog, and discovered that sometimes you shouldn’t snoop in the drawers beside a strange man’s bed.” He’s sort of embarrassed; he’s usually great at forced entry snooping.

Coulson turns to fully look at Clint and then glances at Clint’s discarded jacket at the table, which; on closer look is ripped and covered in hair. “You got mauled by a dog? Are you ok?”

Clint raises his bruised and bitten arm. “Yup. It was a German Sheppard, and he was a dick. It’s safe to say, we will not be playing ball in the park or going on long walks together.” Say it like it’s not a big deal, like this shit happens to everyone.

Coulson stares at the bruising on Clint’s arm, still sort of dumbfounded. “A Sheppard..” Coulson’s lip twitches a bit.

Clint frowns, “A huge German Sheppard, not one of those mixed mutts.” 

Coulson nods agreeably. “Do I need to be worried about a dead dog in..?”

“Mr. Arnulf’s room. And no, I sedated it. Are we going to order in soon for dinner, I’m starving.” He really doesn’t want to continue about the damn dog, yes he gets it, it’s Ironic, and embarrassing.

 

The next night is the Gala, held in one of the convention rooms at the IAEA. Coulson looks impeccable with a superbly fitted suit that sits perfectly on his shoulders and hangs in all the right places. Clint’s is all black and fits well, but he’s still just the body guard this evening. He follows Coulson around, keeping the older agent within sight but stays unobtrusively out of the way, he’s made being unmemorable down to an art. The room is bright and crowded, there’s round tables draped in white and surrounded by chairs. There’s wait staff floating around with food and drinks, wine glasses are everywhere and the music is soft and instrumental.

By the time the party is in full swing, with the alcohol flowing freely, he catches movement decidedly coming towards him. He grinds his teeth already annoyed, if he gets asked one more time where the fucking bathroom is, when the sign is clearly visibly above the damn door...he’ll..quietly and politely point the way. What with keeping a low profile and all, it’s not like he can be a dick. He watches out of the corner of his eye, as she walks up and leans a hip back against the wall, barely a foot away from him. She clasps her hands demurely in front of her, her posture both deferential and inviting. 

He sighs after a few minutes as it becomes clear she isn’t going to leave and glances over. She’s dressed respectably, white blouse, black pencil skirt, high-heeled black pumps and a mane of red hair pulled up into a messy bun. 

She coyly meets his eyes, head tilted down so she’s looking up through her long lashes. Her full lips part in a small smile that show white teeth before she murmurs, “Hello, I’m Abigail.” She nods her head over to the left at a small group of people by one of the tables. “ I’m Mr. Cosgray’s PA. I haven’t seen you at any of the meetings before, is this your first time in Vienna?” 

She pauses, but he doesn’t answer her, so she smoothly continues. “It’s so beautiful here, so colorful and dry, but it still doesn’t compare to Ireland. Have you been?” Again she stops and looks at him.

He decides to give a little and shakes his head, he’s trying not to make a scene. 

She smiles prettily and continues. “I grew up in Wexford, it’s a small city near the sea.” She pauses looking wistful. “Are you here with the American party?” 

He clenches his jaw but smiles. “I just came for the appetizers.”

She doesn’t faulter, “You sound American, but I have a horrible ear for accents.” The look she gives him can only be described as innocent with a touch of something... “Is this you’re bosses first time here..”

He turns to look at her now, wondering if this one sided conversation is ever going to end. Clearly, ignoring her isn’t working. “Isn’t there someone more interesting to talk to here, than me?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity to talk much with American’s and everyone else is already engaged. Are you staying in Vienna long...” She moves in closer, not quite touching but enough he can feel her body heat. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?” Her hand ever so lightly brushes against his hip.

He shifts half a step away and glares back at her. “Buy a ticket and travel. “ 

Her sweet expression falls into something crest fallen and hurt. “Did I do something wrong?” Her eyes glisten and her shoulders hike upwards as she hugs herself. 

His eyes widen in confused disbelief, was she going to cry? He hadn’t even said anything mean, let alone done anything to her and now she was going to make a scene. How the hell was he supposed to get out of this? “Is something wrong with you?” Ok, maybe not the best thing to say.

Her posture straightens a bit and her lips stop quivering. “You’re an asshole.” 

He just shrugs his shoulders and says, “Yup.” He sighs as she finally turns around and walks away and out the main doors of the large Hall. He shakes his head at the oddness of women, and promptly goes back to watching Coulson. 

Past midnight Coulson collects him and they leave for their hotel room, the red-head a quickly fading memory of just another irritating encounter. On arriving in their suite, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it across one of the dining room chairs, before roaming around their suite, searching for any sign of intrusion while they were out. Nothing is out of place and there are no recent new scents permeating the area. He comes back out to find Coulson clicking away on the laptop. 

Coulson pauses and looks over. “Find anything?”

Clint shakes his head. “No. Did you?”

Coulson’s lips thin slightly before he answers. “Mostly conflicting rumours and speculation, I’m booking us on a flight to Switzerland tomorrow morning. There’s a scientist there I would like to talk to, his name came up several times tonight.” He smiles. “You have one more night to enjoy this place.”

Clint’s smile turns dirty as he drags his shirt up and over his head, revealing healing pink scratches and white gauze wrapped around his arm. “Wanna enjoy the shower with me?” 

In answer Phil tugs at his tie, and pulls it loose, he works on the buttons of his shirt as he stands and basically stalks towards Clint. “ 

 

The next morning they take the plane to Switzerland which is thankfully a short flight, and drive straight over to meet with Pascal Amsar, the Scientist who’s working at a private research facility, specializing in nuclear sciences and applications. Dr. Amsar is a short man with glasses, dressed in wrinkled clothes and who won’t keep prolonged eye contact. He fidgets constantly and stutters on occasion, but seems happy enough to talk about the project he’s working on. Coulson stays for nearly an hour talking with him, but Clint doesn’t understand most of what Pascal Amsar talks about. 

He follows Coulson out of the building and back to their car. “Where to now?”

Coulson slips the key into the ignition and the car rumbles to life. “Home. We’ll give the thumb drives over to the techs and have the analysts go over the information we’ve collected.

Clint doesn’t really know what information they’ve collected, but again that’s not what he’s here for.

 

Weeks go by without another word about the Iranian operation. Clint continues learning how to cook, and even goes out to buy a few more things for the kitchen and gets a plant for the living room. But on returning from a two week mission in Canada, it’s brown and wilted to the point of almost being crispy. He dumps the entire thing in the trash. He settles a little bit into the routine of living on his own and quietly looks forward to time spent with Phil upstairs. It’s not like he can complain about anything, he’d never imagined life could be this good when he was younger. And really, it’s pretty fucking good. 

 

Well into fall; when the trees have lost most of their leaves and the air has cooled, three months since Switzerland, they’re sent out to Iran to follow up on new information. Their first stop is the University of Science and Technology in Tehran, where one of the Scientists affiliated with the new nuclear project works part time. Coulson meets up with the scientist mid-morning, the school is busy and it’s a good time to blend in. Clint stays back and keeps an eye on the surroundings from the rooftop of a distant campus building.

Coulson walks out of the school a little over two hours later. “Wrap it up and meet me at the North entrance.” It’s softly spoken, but the ear buds and tech SHIELD uses picks it up perfectly.

Clint folds up and packs away his scope and quickly makes his way to ground level, he flips up the hood of his IUST campus hoodie and strolls over to the North entrance, backpack hanging off of one shoulder. He waits only minutes before Coulson pulls up in the rental black SUV and jumps in. “I didn’t notice any surveillance from my position.”

“I don’t think he’s a high value acquisition, but he knows enough to validate certain rumours. I’m going to attend the IAEA meeting with the Iran representative’s later this afternoon. A safety inspection is being scheduled for after the meeting, at the Tehran nuclear research center.” They slow as they hit heavy traffic downtown. “I need you to leave tonight for Qom, I want you to search the Uranium enrichment plant there. It’s well guarded and hidden in the hills. Dr. Naheed said he heard an undisclosed source talking about keeping certain data hidden there.”

“What am I looking for?” He watches all the colorfully dressed people on the sidewalks.

“The kind no one is supposed to know about. I don’t think this is about Nuclear power or Nuclear weapons. I think it’s a cover, and it’s not Iran funding it, but acting as a window front.” 

Clint frowns. “That’s still pretty vague.”

Coulson smiles. “Should I draw you a picture?”

Clint smiles in return. “Yeah, actually that would be pretty helpful.”

Coulson doesn’t take the bait, pulling into the underground parking lot to their Hotel without another word. He parks the SUV and leans over to collect his things from the back seat.

They climb out and head up to their suite, where Coulson goes straight to the dining room table and sets up his laptop and portable printer. 

Clint goes to the bedroom closet and pulls out the locked hard shell black suite case. He presses his thumb to the small oval sensor, the locks disengage and he opens it up and pulls out the gear he needs. He dresses quickly in black tactical pants, boots, a black shirt, tac vest and shoulder harness for guns and equipment he’s going to need. He adds bits and pieces into the vest pockets, ties the laces of his boots and slides on a non-descript beige, collared coat. 

He walks back into the dining room, where Coulson is still on the phone, presumably with Shield, and sits on one of the sofas to wait. Listens as the printer grinds away, spitting out sheets of paper. His tummy growls and he gets up to pilfer some of last nights dinner from the fridge. Coulson hangs up the phone, and the clacking of keys fill the void. 

Coulson, grabs the papers and shuffles them into order and slips them into a black backpack, along with a tablet and a few odds and ends of tech. “This is everything Shield has, that you’ll specifically need for tonight. There are four preloaded thumb drives, try to find areas where they might find something valuable. “

Clint shoves the last bite of food in his mouth and nods, brushing his hands clean on the fabric of his pants while walking over to the table.

Coulson hands over the bag and a GPS. “ It should only take you about two hours to drive there, so you have an hour or so to go over the information before you need to head out. “

Clint pulls out the papers in the bag, they’re satellite photos of the QOM Uranium Enrichment facility and maps of the area and nearby tiny town of Fordow; both 2d and topographical. There are also condensed descriptions of what the Fordow Unranium enrichment facility is supposed to be, and what Shield believes the nuclear site could be. There is also information about Russia and its history with Iran. There’s a small list of names he should look for, as well as specific Cities and organizations. Some of it is pretty vague, Clint surmises that’s due to his clearance level. He sits there for just over an hour, before packing up to leave.

Coulson looks up from his laptop. “You good to go?”

Clint’s wrestling with a stubborn clasp on the bag but replies dutifully. “Yup.”

“Be back by tomorrow, radio if you’re delayed. And Clint, “ Coulson pauses, “Be careful.” 

Clint’s smiles. “I’m always careful.” He stands up and pushes the chair back in, then looks at Coulson with a slight head dip and says, “Sir.” As a goodbye before he heads out the door. He’s hoping he’ll back in time to get a few hours sleep in the huge, cozy bed before they have to catch their flight back. He’s not too sure what they’re doing tomorrow or when they’re going home, but he hates traveling bone tired. 

Down in the garage, he unlocks the SUV and slides behind the steering wheel and throws his bag onto the passenger seat. Two and a half hours later, longer than he anticipated; he pulls over and parks the SUV in the hills about twenty-one miles away from the Uranium enrichment facility. The Plant is nestled away in the mountains near Fordow and is hidden underground and conveniently out of view.

He reads through the info again before taking a lighter to all but a couple of the maps, which he stows back in the bag. He climbs out and stretches, it’s nearly sunset, but it’s still sweltering hot and dry out. Without the air conditioning he’s already beginning to sweat, and he still has twenty-one miles to hike.

He strips his thin jacket off, shoving it into his backpack, then slides it over his shoulders and pulls all the straps tight so that it won’t shift or bounce much, and starts walking. Once the sun sets, he starts jogging to speed up his arrival, he wants to make it to the boarder of the facility by midnight. He’ll have to push hard to make it, the terrain is rough with steep accents and descents which eats up more time.

Well past nightfall; with his clothes sticking to his body with sweat, he curses the material of his long sleeve black shirt, which is supposed to wick the sweat and heat away from his skin. The fabric is obviously broken, or somebody lied to him, because it’s totally not working. The temperature is slowly cooling with and the absence of Irans unrelenting sun. However who ever told him desserts were cold, also lied, because it doesn’t cool down that much. Close to midnight when he finally arrives at the boarder of the facility, he hunkers down flat on his tummy to the hard ground. He’s still hot and now the dirt and grit adheres uncomfortably to all the moist areas it touches, it’s not pleasant.

He lays there and watches the perimeter for half an hour before moving forward. He hears the crunch of boots on the ground, the smell of sweat and gun oil from the patrolling security before he ever see’s them, which is essential because they never see him. He finds an entrance and slips inside with the help of Shields gadgets, and quickly discovers the building isn’t even complete, It’s still in the stages of being built. 

He pauses at corners to listen for anybody coming down the halls towards him. He waits and sometimes backtracks for people to unknowingly pass by him. The ground floors and the one below it aren’t of any interest, easily accessible and what one would expect to find. In the lower levels there are huge parts of the building still being excavated, parts that are partially built and a few sections that are finished in the west corner. And those turn out to be mostly research labs and offices, and it’s exactly where he needs to be. He ignores the areas that have no significance and searches the ones that do. It’s slow and meticulous, but it’s the early hours of the morning and the place is barely staffed. 

He pauses outside of an office door marked ‘PHD. Ankudinov’, one of the names listed in his briefing. He pauses to listen, there’s a hum and some movement, but it sounds like the last two offices that had fans going to cool the rooms. He tries the door latch and it twists all the way around and opens, he pushes the door open and stops a moment, frowning, before sliding all the way in and closing the door.

He glares at the redhead behind the desk. “A PA from Ireland huh? Did your boss forget his files here? Or maybe you’re working extra hours in hopes for a Christmas bonus?” 

She glares back at him, but cocks a hip to the side in an exaggerated posture of nonchalance; her wavy red hair falls loose around her shoulders and down her back. Clutched in her hand is a thick brown, folder sized envelope, and crossed over her shoulder is the black strap to a messenger bag. “And what are you, the new building rent-a-cop?”

“Yeah, and what you have is mine.” He widens his stance a bit, he’s not going to ask nicely for the envelope.

She glares at him and shoves the envelope into her bag. “Losers don’t get a prize.”

They both stand there utterly still, sizing each other up. He wonders how bad it would be if somebody finds her body here, if it’ll mess with the mission. It’ll be a bitch to carry her body out, but he might.... He stills and tilts his head, still staring at the redhead as the little hairs on the back of his neck tingle and a sudden bout of unease like ice water hits his nerves. It’s a super weird ominous sense of....something. His eyes shift away to the floor as he strains to hear something that maybe he missed, or over looked?

It’s seconds before the ground begins to shift and shake, the furniture and items in the office rattle hard, he doesn’t miss the widening of the red-heads eyes as she crouches low. The building around them starts to groan, sharp loud cracks pierce the air as cement starts to give way and steel twists like heated plastic. Parts of the walls bend as the frame work shudders and snaps in places, the noise is a cacophony of dusty destruction as the earth tremors the very mountain they’re inside. 

The lights flicker before dying completely; casting the room in such inky blackness that even Clint can’t see anything. There’s another loud crack and several thuds followed by a very feminine moan. The sounds of metal bending is foreboding and it’s all so loud, he crouches low to the ground, completely at a loss of what to do. 

Just as quickly as it started, it stops, the sudden stillness has him holding his breath, waiting for the next onslaught of something to happen. But it doesn’t, it’s mostly quiet again except for the muted sounds of broken pipes hissing and water leaking from somewhere. There are no alarms, and he can only faintly hear someone yelling far down the hallway. More pronounced is the redheads breathing, heavy and stuttered at times. The emergency lights flutter a very pale red, bathing the room in just barely enough illumination.

The office is a mess, the ceiling is half collapsed, pieces of the ceiling and cement lay strewn on the floor, along with a fake Irish redhead. Her leg looks to be pinned half under the desk which has collapsed under the weight of a large chuck of cement. 

He walks forward, stepping over and around debris. “This is karma for being an ass.” He stops just short of her and kneels down.

She looks up at him with frightened, watery eyes and clutches at her leg and gasps, face tightening with pain. Lips quivering faintly, and voice wavering she pleads, “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me here.”

He reaches out to her. “Give me the bag, and I’ll help you.” 

She stills a moment, eyes searching his face before she awkwardly pulls the strap off her shoulder and weakly holds it out to him. He grabs the bag and angles it more towards the light before opening it up to rifle through it. There’s the envelope, some other papers, a thumb drive which he palms right away, and a disc. He zips it back up and slips the strap over his shoulder and stands up. 

In a panicky voice she asks, “Wait, what are you doing? Please, my leg, I’m stuck.”

He ignores her and takes a good look around. The walls are bent to fuck and the door is warped with the frame crushing into it. He’s pretty sure, that it’s not going to open but he walks over to try it anyhow. 

Her voice calls out again, this time the tremble is gone, replaced with a steady, measured tone. “If you leave me here, I’ll tell them I was with you and your Agency.” 

He grips the door handle and pulls, hard. The door barely moves, just enough to groan, but there’s no way he’s getting out this way. He lets go and looks up, and finally answers her. “Not if you’re dead.”

“If I don’t make it out, you’re handler doesn’t make it back to your Hotel.” She leans back to rest on her elbows, like she’s just hanging out on the floor and they’re having a friendly conversation.

He turns to stare at her, lying on the floor, as if she’s not stuck under ruble in a partially collapsed, underground building that’s supposedly a Uranium enrichment facility, which in itself should be worrisome. He has no idea if she’s bluffing. “Who are you?” 

She smiles prettily. “I’m Abigail from Ireland.”

He scowls at her, equally pissed and anxious, “You’re an asshole” he grates out, but walks over and starts moving things to free her. Cause fuck if he’s going to mess around with Phil’s life. 

She tilts her head a bit to the side, “Don’t be a sore loser.” She nods over to the large chuck of cement on top of the desk that’s pinning her leg. “Wanna move that instead of all the little bits first?”

He glares at her, but obligingly bends over the debris, muscles straining as he heaves and pushes it off of her. He moves back to lift the desk up and away and then kneels down to take a look at her leg, because fuck if he’s going to carry her sassy ass out of here. It’s too dark to really see much and her pants are still mostly intact, he reaches out but halts before he actually touches her lower leg. An inconvenient flush of anxiety trembles his fingers, he shakes his head and grabs her shin, manipulating the bone. Belatedly asking “Does this Hurt?”

She looks back at him with such a still gaze for no longer than a moment or two, but its unnerving. “It’s my ankle “

He pulls his hands quickly away and frowns, of course its her ankle. “Well? Can you walk?”

She grimaces and shakes her head. “Looks like you’re going to help me out of here.”

Well Fuck. He clenches his jaw, frustrated. He leans back onto his heels and stands up and away from her before he looks around again. The emergency lighting that’s actually working in this room is minimal and leaves the corners so dark it’s hard to see anything. But in the corner where the ceiling has caved-in, has crushed the wall down, bending it inwards, warping it like peeling paint. Leaving enough space to shimmy through to the next room, where hopefully the other door is still intact. 

He turns back to warily watch Abigail climb to her feet. She smoothes her hair back from her face, and dusts herself off, keeping her weight off of her injured ankle. 

He sighs before saying, “There’s a hole in the wall, maybe the other room will have a working door.”

She looks over at the wall and then back over to Clint. “Are you going to be a gentleman and help a lady?” She holds out a delicate hand expectantly.

Clint glares, but concedes and walks over to her and grabs her arm and tries moving her forward, holding her at a distance. But all it does is cause her to stumble over the debris on the floor. “Can’t you hop over things?”

She glares at him. “Do you want to get out of here, or continue being an ass?”

He’s about to banter back but stops when she hops closer to him and grabs his shoulder with her free hand, leaving only inches between their chests. He stiffens and leans back automatically and sort of freezes there, not really sure what to do.

Her breath wafts upwards, she smells of mint and something entirely unfamiliar. “You’re a strong man, how about you carry me over to the wall and help me up?”

He can feel the thud of his heart in his chest, and it’s irritating how easy this seems for her. Gritting his teeth he bends down and slides an arm around her back and under her knees and lifts her up. She’s isn’t wrong about needing to get out of here quickly. She’s just a part of the mission now, and that’s how he’s going to deal with her.

She slides an arm around his neck and leans in close; the heat from her body is distracting. He steps around and over the shit on the floor and up to the gap high in the wall, where he gently drops her legs back to the floor. She stands there, balanced and reaches up to grab onto the destroyed bits of drywall and steel and then looks back over her shoulder. “A little help?” 

He looks at her, and can’t help slightly shifting his weight away as she wiggles her hips at him. He catches himself, and leans down and places both hands firmly around her thighs, below her buttocks and lifts her up. And watches as she hauls herself though the gap and disappears. 

With a shake of his head, he hauls himself up and over as well, both bags slightly catching and hindering him a bit before he drops down into the other room. It’s in better shape and the door looks intact. Abigail is waiting for him, and he obediently lifts her up into his arms again and goes to the door. He stops and listens for any sounds, but so far everything still sounds distant. They’re lucky it’s the night shift.

He opens the door, and tries to ignore the way she clings to him, both arms circling around the back of his neck. He slinks down the hall with quiet footsteps; it’s not hard to stay hidden with the dim, red emergency lighting. He retraces his path up to the ground floor and to the door he came in, and pauses there. Once again listening for guards, he can hear shouting and a truck engine idling somewhere far off to the left. But it’s dark outside; the moon is but a sliver in the sky so he opens it. He pauses listening, and looks around before he jogs out to the perimeter fence, where he once again lifts her up so she can climb over. He follows and picks her back up on the other side and jogs out into the dark hills towards his truck, the messenger bag bouncing around just below his own, well strapped backpack. When he can no longer hear anything in the distance, he slows to a walk. 

The night air is crisp and cool; it’s a nice counter point to the warm body he has in his arms. Her hair smells like flowers and it tickles his noise when the breeze catches it. She smells of sweat and her clothes still carry the soft scent of detergent.

“Is your transport close by?” She asks, her breath is stale peppermint.

“I’m not ready for the responsibility of pet ownership; can I drop you off at the nearest shelter?” Seriously, how far did he have to take her? This is not how he wanted to end this night.

“I’m easy to care for, “ She leans in close and gently drags her full lips up along his neck and jaw line. “Just need to be stroked and played with.”

He stops and jerks his head back and away from her, averting his eyes as he drags in dry, cool desert air and tells himself to relax. “Don’t.”

She stills in his arms, and he cautiously looks at her. She meets his eyes with a steady, calculating gaze. He doesn’t like it. 

Her eyebrow lifts questioningly, “You going to just stand here all night?”

His next breath comes a little steadier; it’s easier when she’s being an ass. “You know, you’re not a paper weight, carry your sorry ass through the dessert isn’t easy.” And it’s really not; his arms are starting to quiver with fatigue. He may be a little stronger than your average person, but he’s not superman.

He drops her legs to the ground, the quick movement doesn’t seem to faze her and she lands on her good foot, the other raised above the ground. She doesn’t say a word as he ducks down and arranges her arms and lifts her in a fireman’s-carry over his shoulders. She helps him out and arranges herself comfortably, once situated he grabs onto one thigh and arm, and marches onwards to the SUV hidden away further down the mountain. 

“How is this going to end?” He asks after a few more miles go by.

“Obviously not in pet adoption.” She pauses but he doesn’t reply. “I’m not here to fuck with your or your handler, get me to your vehicle and he’ll be fine.”

“And the data I was looking for? How do you know about who I work for?” He asks.

“Oh sweetie, that was easy.” Her reply is amused.

“You’re not going to tell me.” He really doesn’t like her.

“You’re surprisingly sturdy for such a small guy.” She pats his hip like one would a good dog.

“And you’re disappointingly heavy.” God, he wishes he could just dump her on the ground.

“It’s all muscle baby.” She doesn’t sound the least bit offended.

By the time they get to where he can just see the SUV in the distance, his shoulders are beginning to ache something fierce. Between Abigail and the bags and the hike through the mountains, he’s sorely in need of a rest. It’s a welcomed sight; it hopefully also means he can finally get rid of her. A sting of pain bites into the meat of his thigh, near his butt. He fucking hates the desert, the heat, the dust and the fucking bugs.

He swipes at his leg, in an automatic gesture to knock away the little biting shit that’s attacked him, but feels nothing attached to him. “Where am I dropping you...” His steps falter, woozy and increasingly weakened. “What the fuck?” He drops to a knee and feels Abigail slide off his shoulders.

“Take a nap grumpy.” She pats his head and then grabs the strap of her messenger bag.

“You drugged me?” He asks in disbelief. He tries to hang onto her bag, but the earth tilts on him and he drops to his hands, trying to stay steady.

She waits a moment before roughly pushing him over to collapse flat onto the hard packed dirt. He’s so disoriented that he goes without a fight, and all but sprawls on the ground half on his back. It’s awkward as the backpack he’s wearing arch’s his back uncomfortably. He distantly feels her tugging and pulling the messenger back free, and he throws an arm up into the air in an uncoordinated, feeble attempt to grab for it.

He sinks further into the ground, he’s pretty sure he’s falling into dusty pudding, his last conscious thought is, “I’m in so much trouble.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He blinks dry, heavy eyes to a dark, clear black sky and brilliant bright stars. His clothes feel damp with sweat and there’s dirt sticking to his neck and what feels like inside his shirt. The clean scent of desert air fills his lungs and, oh yeah. 
> 
> Fuck. Fucking asshole redheads and mission wrecking earthquakes just ruined his night. Just fuck. He rolls over and pushes himself off the ground to a kneeling position and checks his watch and sighs. He’s only been out maybe fifteen minutes, thank fuck. He looks up and over to the SUV, or where the SUV should be. 
> 
> “You got to be fucking kidding me, unfucking believable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I would love to find a beta....?? Another set of eyes to catch mistakes would be fabulous!

A Mongrel Pack of Purebloods  
Chapter. 2

He blinks dry, heavy eyes to a dark, clear sky and brilliant stars. His clothes feel damp with sweat and there’s dirt sticking to his neck and what feels like inside his shirt. The clean scent of desert air fills his lungs and, oh yeah. Fuck. Fucking asshole redheads and mission wrecking earthquakes just ruined his night. Just fuck. He rolls over and pushes himself off the ground to a kneeling position and checks his watch and sighs. He’s only been out maybe fifteen minutes, thank fuck. He looks up and over to the SUV, or where the SUV should be. “You got to be fucking kidding me, unfucking believable.” 

He pulls the map out of his bag, tightens the straps again and gets to his feet and starts walking. It’s four in the morning; he has four more hours before he’s supposed to be back at the Hotel. With the SUV, it would have been do-able, now it’s a problem. But he’s hesitant to call Coulson just yet. 

He walks until he feels like he’s back to normal from whatever he was drugged with and begins jogging towards Qom, staying off the dark roads and hiding whenever he sees a car coming towards him, which doesn’t happen often. An hour later with skies bleeding the first hints of dawn and nearly to the point of conceding defeat and texting Coulson, he squints at what looks like his SUV parked in the distance. At least he hopes the big dark shape partially concealed in the bushes far up a head is his SUV. Fuck he needs this to be his ride. With the sky lightening with the coming sunrise, streaks of light glint off the vehicles glass and as he makes it closer still, he can’t help but smile. The slightly scratched black paint completely covered in dust is definitely his car, parked off the road and haphazardly hidden in bushes. It’s unlocked and the keys are on the seat, the extra water bottles are gone, but he doesn’t give a shit. He throws his backpack onto the passenger seat and climbs in, grimacing as his sweaty back hits the cool seat. Fuck he’s tired. He turns the key and the SUV rumbles to life, he puts it into gear and makes his way quickly back to the hotel.

He walks into the suite to the smell of coffee and Phil sitting in front of his laptop at the dining table, holding his cell phone to his ear. They lock eyes and Clint quietly waves before dumping his backpack on the table. He digs the thumb drives out of one of the pockets in the bag, and the one he stole from the Redhead from his pocket and places them on the table. Thank god he has something, before heading straight to the shower in a strategic get-a-way. He hasn’t quite figured out what to tell Coulson yet, and the added tension in his shoulders is giving him a headache.   
He peels out of his dirty clothes and drops them on the floor in a messy heap, and then slips into the shower and under the water. He braces both hands flat against the clean tile and just stands there, eyes closed, focusing on the warm water running down his head, washing the grit off his body and into the drain. His shoulders and back are sore, muscles fatigued and aching. With a long, low sigh, he tiredly grabs for the soap.

Phil walks in while Clint’s just toweling dry. “Everything go ok?” He looks down at the discarded dirty clothes, dust marring the pristine white tiles.

Clint inwardly cringes but keeps his expression relaxed and wraps the towel around his waist. “I got most of the information I was looking for.” Fuck he’s so thirsty. “Earthquake hit, building sorta collapsed, helped a snarky redhead out, who re-parked the SUV down the road a ways. Traffic was awful, but I made it back on time. How was your night?” And hungry, he’s definitely hungry.

“I see.” Coulson pauses, waiting for more, but when Clint makes no move to dress or speak, he frowns. “How about we debrief after Breakfast?” He asks instead, his tone low and without inflection. 

“Yeah, I’m starving.” But he doesn’t move, still standing there naked; unsure if he just got a pass, or if he’s in bigger trouble than he thought. 

“Go get dressed Clint and pack; unless there’s something on those drives which requires us to stay, we’re leaving today.” Phil turns and walks out of the bathroom and back to his laptop in the dining room. He phones Shield and talks to the techs, asking if they have any satellite coverage of the Furdow facility last night and for any news about the earthquake there. Irritated, he waits for the information to be sent to his laptop. Even though most of the time he couldn’t be happier with his partnership with Clint, there are times when he has misgivings about their closeness when Clint doesn’t give him accurate mission details. It doesn’t seem to happen often, but the fact it happens at all annoys him.

Clint comes out to the dining area and sits in the chair across from Phil who is back on the laptop and doesn’t acknowledge him. Well at least now he knows he’s in trouble. So he waits quietly, his stomach betrays him by growling loudly, but he’s too tense to move. He doesn’t know how to apologize or make...whatever this is, better.

“Breakfast should be up momentarily.” Phil says without looking up from what he’s doing. “A Redhead?” He asks.

Clint winces. “She was already inside one of the offices. I stole the thumb drive she had in her bag.” No need to tempt further reprimand and explain he could have come back with another bag full of possible intel. “Earthquake hit, and I had to help her out, she said she knew who we were and would spill the beans if I left her.” Omit, omit, omit.

Phil finally looks up and stares at Clint, waiting. “Do you know who she was? Do you at least have a description of her?” 

“Red hair, maybe 5’5, definitely an asshole.” Clint tries not to fidget.

“And you helped her out to safety and let her take your vehicle.” Phil is not impressed.

“I wouldn’t say let, more like she was super sneaky and stole it.” Fuck he was going to have to figure out what to say in his report, hopefully something that sounded better than getting drugged like a chump.

Phil waits expectantly, but Clint doesn’t say anything else. “Your report will be due by tomorrow.” With a shake of his head, he goes back to working on the laptop. 

Clint ducks his head and feels like shit, it’d be better if Coulson just said something or maybe yelled at him instead of this quiet disappointment. 

When breakfast arrives, Clint eats, finishes his glass of water and then downs a cup of coffee. Clean and full he can’t help the exhaustion weighing him down; he’s fucking tired and can’t help turning to look towards the bedroom.

Coulson, of course notices. “Go get some sleep, it’ll be at least another few hours before Shield gets through the information on the drives. If anything stands out, they’ll let me know. Unless something comes up, we are scheduled to leave at five tonight.” 

 

Clint stands and walks to the bedroom without a word, it’s probably best just to leave the other man alone. Don’t poke angry bears and all that, at least he thinks that’s the saying. He looks uncertainly at the bed they’ve been sharing but with a dejected sigh turns to crawl into the second bed to sleep.

 

When they get back home to Shield, Clint finds he’s been signed back onto the training program for electronic security systems the next day. It’s an intense, four week long course and runs all day, five days a week. His weekends have also been booked at the range to instruct the level one’s on proper weapons handling. As far as punishments go, it’s not that bad, it’s just going to be a very long month. It’s also a month where Clint spends every night in his own apartment alone quietly waiting for a text or call from Coulson that never comes. He doesn’t totally understand why he’s being punished either, not entirely; sure the mission got a little fucked but it ended well enough. Sure he omitted some shit, but it wasn’t important.   
Overall, there’s nothing he can do but wait for Coulson to figuratively let him out of the dog house. He doesn’t ask any questions, he doesn’t text, he’s doesn’t stop by Coulson’s office. He waits, like he’s supposed to. 

On Saturday, the day after he finishes his month long security systems course, his phone buzzes with a text from Coulson, inviting him over for dinner that night. He arrives and knocks on Phil’s door promptly at five. Phil opens the door with a smile. The night is familiar, like many other Saturdays before it, but he pays close attention to Phil’s body language, the small changes in facial expression and any inflections to his voice. Careful to follow all the cues to what he thinks Coulson is expecting of him. He sits at the kitchen bar and watches as Phil makes dinner, they chat and eventually they eat and then sit on the sofa to watch tv. When Phil turns the tv off and retires to the bedroom, Clint follows, looking at the bed hopefully. He smiles and hums happily when Phil slowly strips him out of his clothes and leads him to bed.

Sex is slow and after a month long absence, neither of them last long. He lies there, wrapped in Phil’s arms and listens as the older man’s breath deepens into slumber. He lays there wide awake. We’re they good now? Was this how normal people resolved things? A month being ignored was pretty fucking shitty, but not...horrible. There was no yelling or hitting or kennels, or awkward conversations like in the movies. The evening was comforting with its familiarity and he’s warm, with Phil’s solid weight pressed against him. He smiles and relaxes into the bed, if this is how people sort shit out; it’s not that bad at all. At least now he knows for next time.

Three months later his credentials are raised to level three with very little fanfare. He signs his name on another contact that he doesn’t bother to read. Something to do with clearance levels and access to information, but things in Shield don’t get good until you hit level five at least. 

A week later he’s part of a five man team in Paris with Coulson as team leader. Agent King and Bentley are level five operatives and Agent Eastman is their level five tech. Once again, he’s the only one here who doesn’t know all the details of the mission. Coulson briefs the team on the operation at Shield before they head out, but he’s pretty sure the other three have additional orders in their folders he’s not privy to.

Clint’s at the Hotel where the conference for clean energy is being held, looking for a German scientist and a financial backer associated with their Nuclear energy investigation months ago. Coulson is on the main floor mingling with the guests, trying to find out who the German scientist is, as they only have an alias and no photo to go by. Clint walks around keeping an eye on their financial heavy weight; a small, big nosed, aristocratic looking man by the name of Preston.

Hotel galas, conferences, parties, meetings, birthdays or whatever else a hotel might host, are boring. He hates how familiar it is for him. Agent Eastman is upstairs in a suite surrounded by tech. He wonders what the other two Agents are doing right now, because they’re not here. He watches as Preston converses with a well dressed group of people by the bar, all holding expensive glasses of booze. His eyes slide over to the guy in a suit by the stairs who’s been watching Preston all night too, Clint wonders if the guy is CIA or possibly a problem.

Out of the corner of his, he catches a glimpse of red curls, pale skin and a sparkly black dress, not unusual for a party like this, but he turns to look all the same. And freezes, eyes wide in incredulity, because holy shit, what are the chances, she would be here? Heart beating quicker in anticipation, he smiles as he moves to follow her. Out loud he says, “Leaving the Rabbit.”

Eastman’s southern drawl replies quietly in his ear. “Copy, I got eyes on the Rabbit through video.”

Clint hunts his little red fox as she strolls past the bar and turns a corner towards the lobby and steps into the elevator, which of course is open and waiting for her. He pauses at the corner until the elevator doors close before continuing over, and watches as the digital floor indicator at the top stops at the basement. He presses the down button, to follow her on the second elevator but of course has to wait for it. He grinds his teeth waiting impatiently; when it opens he steps in and blocks two other from entering, shaking his at them while jabbing a finger on the close button. The elevator descends to the basement where he exits to an empty, beige hallway with overhead fluorescent lighting, it’s quiet. He drags in a long inhale of air, tasting it along his tongue and smiles at familiar peppermint. Tracing her scent to the Laundry Room, he quietly pushes the door open. 

“Hey Red, fancy meeting you here.” He calls out to her while pulling his gun out from under his coat, walking over with an unhurried stride

She doesn’t even bother to look up from where she’s leaning over a large laundry bin. “You took your time.” She’s says, “You have scissors?”

He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. “What?” What the hell is she looking at? A tad nervous, he quickens his pace and stops abruptly when he can see what’s inside the laundry bin and glares at her. “What the fuck are you doing?” He darts his eyes quickly over to the four other laundry bins, and sure enough, they aren’t filled with sheets or clothes.

She glares back, still hunched over the first bin. “Me?”

He points into the bin. “Well I certainly didn’t bring bombs to the hotel. Disarm them!” He nearly yells. Because holy shit, there’s a lot of boom down here.

“You disable it!” She throws back.

“Oh no, of course what was I thinking. Oh wait, nope, I missed Bomb making 101 last Christmas.” It’s not really a lie; he actually did miss the class due to an out of town mission last year.

“You’re a child. Stop freaking out and stop pointing your gun at me.” She’s totally bent over the bin now, fiddling with wires.

And that worries him. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” He should contact Coulson.

“Of course I do, I’m smarter than you.” She sounds smug. “Seriously though, a little help would be appreciated.”

“I don’t have scissors.” He says. Seriously, who carries scissors?

She stops and looks up at him like he’s just told her the Easter bunny is real. “Grab that flash light over there and bring it over, I need better light.”

He does as he’s told, holds it where she indicates and watches as she peals back parts of the bomb casing, pulls on wires, follows paths and then cuts different colored wires with a small knife. He obediently follows her to the other bins, providing her with sufficient light while watching her gut and yank on wires on the other identical bombs. To say he’s not nervous would be a lie, he doesn’t say a word in fear of distracting her until she’s done.

“How did you know they were here? You know what, never mind.” He clicks his ear piece. “Coulson, I’ve got a situation in the basement Laundry room. You might want to take a look.”

Coulson replies immediately. “On my way.”

“Your Handler dresses well, what happened with you?” She slips the knife somewhere into her cleavage.

He looks down into one of the bins, at solid red numbers no longer ticking down. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” He glares at her.

She dusts off her hands and smoothes out her dress. “I’m ready to join your Boy Scout club.”

“I told you, I’m not adopting any pets.” He says immediately. 

“Trust me, Shield will want me.” She fires back with a confident smile and a tilt of her hips.

“Uh huh, how do you even know who I work for?” Because, wow, what the fuck.

She ignores him and continues. “You obviously don’t know who I am. “

He shakes his head. “Nope.” He draws the word out, making the ‘P’ pop at the end.

“My name is Natalia Romanoff.” She stares at him expectantly.

He just shrugs his shoulders. “Are you trying to tell me you’re famous?” 

She tilts her head. “The Black Widow?”

He clenches his jaw, because this is obviously above his level three clearance. “Nope. Did you name yourself? Is that a thing now a days?”

Before she can answer, Coulson pushes open the door, gun drawn and stops just inside, gaze darting between the both of them. 

“Agent Barton, care to report?” Coulson asks, very carefully not moving.

“There’s four, very large bombs in the bins, Red disarmed them and now she wants to join Shield, I told her were not adopting strays.” He frowns, when Coulson’s body language doesn’t soften any. Wow, he just can’t get a head lately.

“Miss Romanoff, is it?” Coulson asks.

Clint frowns even more at the fact that Coulson apparently knows who she is, and by looking at him, is wary of her. Which means she’s probably a bigger threat than he thought.

Romanoff nods. “I’m looking for employment with a better benefits package, you’re resources would be nice too.”

Coulson nods towards the bins. “And the bombs?”

She shakes her head. “Not mine. I have information you want, and I’m an asset you need.” 

Coulson nods agreeably. “How about we start with the information I want.” He glances over to Clint. “Agent Barton, is Romanoff the Redhead from the desert?”

He’s getting the feelings he’s in trouble again. “Yes.” It sucks being the one left out of the loop. 

Natasha pulls a thumb drive out of her bra and hands it over to Coulson. “The man you’re looking for tonight is Dr. Alan, he’s the German with the glasses, black suite, purple tie. His alias tonight is Dr. Croft. “

Coulson studies her for a moment before pockets the drive and relaying the information to Eastman upstairs. “Miss Romanoff, I would be happy to expedite your employment application, however there will of course be some questions first.” He holsters his gun. “If it’s agreeable to you, we can proceed tonight.”

She smiles. “I’m packed and ready to go. My suite is just above yours.” 

Clint turns to look at her, because that’s not creepy at all. “Seriously?” 

“Don’t feel bad for not noticing.” She’s says with a straight face. 

She goes to pat his shoulder, but he slaps her hand away before she makes contact. “I told you, don’t do that.” He was not looking forward to sharing ride with her all the way back to New York.

“Agent Barton!” Coulson’s sharp reprimand is loud in the room.

Clint snaps his head up and hunches his shoulders in surprise at the sudden steel in his Handlers voice. Was this one of those, never hit a lady rules? Was he not supposed to touch her? Something else? “Sorry Sir” He mutters. He doesn’t move until Coulson walks away to talk on the phone near the doors.

Natasha crosses her arms and leans towards him. “He’s worried I’ll murder you.” She says quietly with a grin.

Clint scuffs, “Uh huh, all five threatening feet of you.” He holsters his gun and forces his stance into something more relaxed.

Coulson walks back over and from there, things happen quickly. Dr. Croft is taken into custody, a Shield cleaning team comes to dispose of the bombs and they pack up and leave on a private plane back to Shield.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Clint doesn’t see or hear anything about Natasha for the next month, and he honestly doesn’t give it much thought. That is, until he goes to Coulson’s office Wednesday afternoon and walks in to find her on his sofa. Just sitting there, reading something in a file folder. On his sofa. 

Still standing in the door way, clutching the door knob, he tears his eyes off of her and looks at Coulson. “Uh...” He came here for a reason. “Are..” It’s hardly unusual for other people to be in Coulson’s office. “Lunch?” He finally manages.

“I could do lunch.” Natasha pipes up from the sofa.

Coulson shakes his head. “I ate earlier, but I would appreciate it if you showed Natasha around.”

Clint looks back at the Redhead on his sofa, who’s smiling at him. “Uh, Sure.” It’s not like he can actually say no. He lets go of the door and steps back out into the hallway and waits for Natasha, who follows him out. This is not how he expected the afternoon to go.

Not twenty feet down the hall, she elbows him in the ribs and asks, “Miss me?”

“No.” He says, shaking his head. He just wanted to spend some time and have a sandwich with Coulson.

“Is your room on the same floor as mine?” She asks.

He looks over at her. “What?” What happened to lunch?

“Your room? Mine is tiny and they tell me I have to stay here for a while.” She explains, talking a little slower like he’s an idiot.

“I don’t live here anymore.” He finally says, ignoring her tone.

“Great, lets switch places.” She pauses before starting again. “I’ve been to the Mess, take me somewhere out of the building for lunch.”

He’s not sure what to say, already taken off guard by events, but turns left at the next Hall instead of going straight, which would have lead them to the Mess. They walk without talking, and without her distracting him he notices that a few people on their way out the building almost do double-takes when they recognize her. He’s not sure what to make of it, curious but too embarrassed to ask about her, since everyone else seems to know. 

Clint heads down the street towards the cafe he prefers, but a tug on his arm pulls him towards a pub across the road he’s never been in before. He pulls his elbow out of her hand but doggedly follows her inside, Phil did tell him to take her to eat. The place is dark and quiet, only a few other people sitting at old wooden tables with mismatching chairs. The walls are decorated in old posters, photos and random eclectic clutter. He follows her to a far table at the back wall and sits across from her, grabbing one of the old menus sitting to the side. It’s sticky and smells like ketchup.

He looks up from the grossness of the menu to Natasha staring at him. “What?” 

“You still don’t know.” She says.

He doesn’t know a lot of things, so that’s not really saying much. “Actually, I’m getting the bacon burger.” The quicker they order, the quicker he can dump her back off at Shield. 

She arches a finely plucked eyebrow, “Let’s do shots.”

“No.” He pushes the menu over to the corner. If this was how annoying going out for lunch with people was, it was a good thing nobody else had ever asked him out. 

“Why?” She counters quickly, voice amused.

“It’s the middle of the day.” He looks over at the bartender, trying to get the guys attention. 

“You don’t drink?” She asks but it doesn’t really come out like a question.

He draws in a long, calming breath before getting up and walking over to the counter where the bartender is drying glasses. He orders two bacon burgers with fries, pays right away and goes back to the table with a single shot of Vodka. She smiles but doesn’t touch the shot. They wait for the food, eat and leave all without another word. Which is just fine with him.

Over the next week, he runs into Natasha and Coulson together a few more times, walking down the hall, in Coulson’s office and once in the range. He grits his teeth and keeps his head down. He spots Sitwell coming out of the elevator late in the evening on Thursday, having spent most of the day at his desk going over the mission information for the operation he’s leaving on with Coulson on Saturday.

He hurries to catch up to Sitwell. “Hey Jasper, uh, got a minute?”

Sitwell adjusts his glasses and nods. “You have until I make it back to my office.”

“What’s so special about Romanoff?” No point in beating around the bush, and Jasper is the only other person he can ask.

“Natasha Romanoff is a super spy from Russia’s Black Widow Program, basically there version of the super solider program. She has an unmatched mission success rate, and until she came to Shield, we’d been searching for her. We’re very lucky to have her working with us.” Jasper stops outside his office door, “You’re going to make an excellent team.”

Wait, what? He focuses on keeping his posture loose, because, what the fuck now? He can see his reflection in Jaspers glasses. “Thanks man.”

Jasper claps him once lightly on the shoulder, “Go home Barton, it’s late.” He says, before turning to slip into his office; clearly not taking his own advice on calling it a night.

Clint sighs, but dutifully heads home to his dark apartment, with its semi bare cupboards, clean dishes and still sparse bookshelf. 

He travels with Coulson to Atlantic City, where he takes his gear bag and sets himself up in the empty apartment on the twenty-first floor, right across from Mr. DeLang’s apartment that Shield has been using for surveillance. He’s got a folder of information about Mr. DeLang’s daily routine, habits and other stuff that the Shield reconnaissance team has gathered over the last three weeks of following the man. 

He’s here to tie up loose ends, because its been decided by someone, that Mr. DeLang has made his last bad business deal. Coulson is off across the City to twist things around with Mr. DeLang’s business associates, manoeuvring things in favor of Shield and public safety. 

Clint waits and watches through his binoculars until DeLang gets home from work a little after seven that night. He takes the copied building keys that the other Shield Agents acquired, and makes his way down to the garbage room in DeLang’s building. DeLang’s building has a mechanical industrial garbage compactor and shredder, and DeLang uses it almost every evening around eight. It’s as simple as waiting behind the recycling bins by the door for DeLang to walk right past him. Clint slips out, locks the doors and takes a moment to almost appreciate the shocked expression on the other mans face. DeLang’s eyes are wide as the muted, but still sharp rapport of the gun shot echoes in the room, before DeLang slumps to the floor dead, the small red hole in his chest sluggishly bleeding.

 

Clint puts the gun back into his holster in the small of his back under his coat, walks over and kneels down and stuffs a ladies tampon into the wet hole in the man’s chest to stop the oozing mess. He grabs hold of DeLang’s lax right hand, spreads it out flat on the floor and pulls the knife out of the sheath strapped to his calf and quickly cuts off the index finger. 

 

He lifts and pushes the body into the industrial size shredder slash compactor, grunting irritatingly all the while, because man-handling a dead body is harder than you might think. The weight distribution is all off, limbs hanging awkwardly and getting caught on shit.

 

The garbage compactor grinds away, working loudly but efficiently, the sounds are a little gross and the smell makes him scrunch his nose in distaste. When the compactor breaks the body apart, tearing open both stomach and intestines, the smell of shit and vomit permeates the room. There are times when his strong sense of smell turns his stomach. With a shake of his head he pulls out the paper towel and bottle of cleaning fluid he brought along in his bag and wipes down all the bloody areas, tossing everything into the shredder. He’s not trying to hide the body, just masking how and who killed him from the people Coulson’s working.

 

He retrieves the finger, putting it into a zip lock bag, grabs DeLang’s apartment keys and makes his way up stairs. He lets himself into the apartment, and walks around searching for the things requested in his mission folder. He finds them in the office and shoves everything into his bag. Done, he goes to sit on the floor just inside the office door to wait. If everything works according to Coulson’s plan, DeLang’s ‘Assistant’ should be coming by to drop off a few things later tonight.

 

Hours later she arrives, and he listens to her keys jingling as she comes through the front door. She calls out for DeLang, but her steps don’t falter as she makes her way to Clint in the office. He grabs her from behind as she walks through the doorway. Her keys clatter to the floor and her purse strap falls off her shoulder to hang in the crook of her elbow, swinging as she struggles in panic.

 

His gloved hand curls around her thin neck squeezing; pulling her tightly back against his chest, muffling the squeal trying to make it out her mouth. Her hair smells clean and faintly of lilacs. She doesn’t offer up much resistance as he plunges the knife between her ribs and into her heart. It’s over quickly and he lets her drop to the ground, the thick plush carpet muffling the thud as she lands. He grabs her purse and shoves the entire thing into his gear bag. He moves to the kitchen and washes the blood off his knife, drying it on a dish towel hanging from the oven.

 

He locks the apartment door behind him, texts Coulson and takes the elevator down to the lobby and strolls across the road, back to the surveillance apartment to wait.

 

A successful mission and three days later, they’re back in New York. And still not one word from Coulson about Natasha. Clint sighs, used to waiting, but he’d been hopeful that Coulson would tell him something. But he supposes it’s none of his business, and things are good between them, why rock the boat. 

 

The next couple of days at Shield are quiet, so when he gets a text on Tuesday to meet Coulson in his office at two, he’s happily looking forward to it. It’s something that hasn’t been happening a lot lately, and he kind of misses his sofa and the clacking of laptop keys. 

 

He knocks and enters Coulson’s office promptly on time, already smiling as he makes himself comfortable on the sofa. A faint scent of peppermint and something fruity wafts up from the fabric, he draws in a deeper breath, and sure enough, he can smell Natasha on his sofa. He looks down to assess the fabric, and notices the absence of black hairs. Irritated, he misses the look that Coulson gives him as he’s glaring down at the cushions. What did she do, literally roll around on here after taking a sticky roller to it?

 

“Barton.” Coulson says.

 

Clint jerks his head up. “Sorry Sir, what?”

 

Coulson stares at him a minute, expression pleasantly bland. “Everything alright, do you need a moment?” 

 

He’s pretty sure Coulson’s amused, by what he’s not too sure. “Yeah...yeah, wait, do you ever get this thing cleaned?”

 

“Why, does it smell like dog?” Coulson asks, completely straight faced.

 

“Dog? I’ll have you know Boss, that I do not smell like a dog. I smell delightful. “ Dogs were dumb. He tilts his head, wait, Coulson was fucking with him.

 

“Of course you do. “ Coulson smiles, then continues more seriously. “Look, I’ve been meeting with the Director over the last couple of weeks. Since Romanoff has come on board, it’s presented a unique opportunity to create a new direct action team. You both have unique abilities and skills, but your clearance level has been a bit of a roadblock. The director has authorized your promotion to level five.“ He pushes a beige folder over, on top of which is a new ID badge. “This is your new badge and employment package; I need you to sign it.”

 

Clint gets up to take the folder and badge and then sits back down. “Does this mean I have access to level 22 now?” Holy shit, how awesome was this?

 

“Yes. It also means I can read you into the details of past missions if you want.” Coulson says.

 

He doesn’t really give a shit about past missions, except maybe.... “So Natasha is part of our team?”

 

“Yes, she’ll be working directly under me, as you do, which is why it makes sense to create a new team with the both of you.” Coulson leans back in his chair. “Our intelligence on the Iranian nuclear energy program was that Iran wasn’t building the plant for power or nuclear armaments, but a front for an old Russian program called the Red Room. To make a long story short, it looks like someone in Russia is trying to start the program again. Romanoff is the product of the original program, and she wants to burn the program to the ground with our help. Seeing as how that’s a win-win, for us, Shield was more than happy extend to her our partnership.”

 

Huh, well that didn’t really make the missions in Iran or Vienna anymore informative, or tell him any more about Natasha. That was pretty much what Sitwell said. He fingers his new badge, if anything he supposes he should be happy that her sudden inclusion into his life brought him this. “So, it’s just the three of us on this team?”

 

“Yes. Do you have any other questions?” Coulson asks.

 

Yeah, why the hell was Natasha so important? “Nope.”

 

Coulson rolls his chair back from the desk. “Well that went quicker than I thought; I have time for lunch if you want to join me?” He stands up and buttons his suit jacket, brushing a hand down the fabric to smooth the creases out.

 

Clint smiles broadly. “Yeah, I’m starving.” 

 

 

The next day when Clint goes to his desk on level 8 to go through some paperwork, he finds Natasha practically draped over his chair and desk top. 

 

She calls out to him, when he’s still practically across the room. “Hey partner.”

 

He ignores the looks he gets from the others in the room, some of them curious, a couple irritated. It’s not like the place is quiet, the clacking of computer keys, a cacophony of voices, people talking, either on the phone or directly to others in the area. The room is huge, cluttered with office desks and computers and flat screen displays line the upper walls all around the room, all displaying different information. 

 

Clint doesn’t love it here, but he ultimately spends a lot of time here working, and as long as he keeps to himself, people don’t bother him. He doesn’t say a thing until he’s next her. “What are you doing here?”

 

She looks at him like he’s the retarded cousin. “Waiting for you.” She gets up. “Come on, you need to sign out a company car.”

 

He shakes his head. “No I don’t.” He has work to do.

 

“Yes you do, chaperone me to the mall.” She says as she walks off.

 

Did he have to follow her? Was this a team thing? He grits his teeth as he trails her out of the room and down to the carpool where he signs out a car. He’s not the least bit surprised when she climbs behind the wheel. “Why are we going to the mall?” 

 

“The toothpaste Shield provides is disgusting, I need supplies.” She guides the car out on to the street and takes them across the city to the high end shopping district.

 

He texts Coulson, but his Handler just writes back that he doesn’t need permission to leave the building. So he spends the afternoon following her around and ends up carrying her bags. He’s absolutely positive this isn’t what other team members on other teams do during their days. But he’s never had a partner before, so.....

 

Hours later they park the car back in the parking garage in Shield and he follows her up to her quarters. In one of the hallways, he passes Kagan, one of the dicks from basic he’s been avoiding for years. 

 

The bigger man smirks and huffs, “Barton, nice to see your skills are being utilized.”

 

Clint forces a lazy grin, but doesn’t reply. There’s no point, and he doesn’t have anything witty to say. His shoulders are still tense when they get into the elevator and ride it up to the living quarters. 

 

“Who was that?” Natasha asks.

 

The bags crinkle when he shifts his stance, “Nobody important.” 

 

The doors slide open with a quiet whoosh and they walk to Natasha’s door. She opens it and gestures for him to follow but he shakes his head and passes the bags over the threshold. She stares at him unnervingly for a moment, but breaks the tension with a shrug and grabs the bags. He takes that as a good time to leave and makes a hasty retreat.

 

Over the next four weeks, it feels like not a day passes without bumping into Natasha, not matter how short he is with her or how rude, she just shrugs it off like nothing. And if he’s honest, he appreciates having somebody to have lunch with. The Mess can get awkward sometimes when you can hear people talking about you, when you’re not meant to overhear it. 

 

When he makes it to his desk early on a Wednesday morning, Natasha is sitting at the one next to his on the left. “Agent Pace is going to be pissed when he finds you at his desk.”

 

She sips at her coffee and leans back; in what he notices, is a really nice office chair, with lumbar support and extra padding. “Agent Pace was nice enough to switch with me, and Agent Newman offered me her chair.”

 

Clint frowns, cause how the hell?? Pace was an OCD control freak and Newman, well he didn’t know Newman. But he can’t imagine anyone just giving up that chair. “Huh.” Is all he says, because he’s honestly speechless. They work side by side for the next couple of hours until he leaves to have lunch with Coulson in the Mess, which has become increasingly sporadic over the last year. 

 

On Friday Natasha finds him at the end of the day just before he’s about to leave. “Let’s go for drinks.”

 

It’s either go out with her or go home alone again. “Sure.” Besides, he’s a secret agent spy, up for new adventures and who faces danger head on. Or something like that.

 

They cab it to a pub in the City, Clint’s never been to before, it’s small, dark, loud and busy. It smells of stale food, booze and mould. They grab a table near the back and Natasha orders them both drinks and a plate of fries. When the drinks arrive Natasha pushes his glass towards him with enough force, the booze sloshes over the side to spill on the table top.

 

“Lets play a game.” Natasha says, unzipping her jacket. 

 

Clint narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t think I want to play any of your games.” 

 

“Yes you do.” She nods her head over to the left, at the unused dart board in the corner, conveniently near their table.

 

Surprised, he says “You wanna play darts?” That actually sounds like fun.

 

She nods, “By my rules.” 

 

“Of course you do.” He’s never played darts before, but used to watch Barney play with the circus people when he was younger. “What are your rules?”

 

Natasha answers, “ Three darts each, lowest score drinks.”

 

Clint unzips and shrugs out of his coat and drapes it on the back of his chair. “Ok.” He can’t remember the last time he played a game.

 

Natasha gets up and plucks the darts out of the board and comes back to their table. “I go first.” 

 

Clint stands back and watches as she fires them in quick succession into the board, pleasantly impressed with her accuracy, as they all end up crammed in the red center. He smirks and walks to the board to pull the darts out for his turn, but stops when she calls out to him.

 

“No. You have to work around mine on the board.” She’s looking smug and offers the other three darts to him.

 

Clint frowns. “What? That’s stupid, there’s no more room.”

 

She shrugs unperturbed. “My rules. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be fun.”

 

Clint conceded and turns back to the board. He fires off his darts; one makes it close to the center, tilting one of Natasha darts to the side. His second dart hits one of Natasha’s and falls to the floor. His third hits just outside the center ring. He frowns, that did not go the way he expected it to.

 

Natasha smiles and hands him his drink from the table. “Drink up.”

 

The liquor and whatever it’s mixed with, is black and burns his nose hairs, it smells disgusting. But he doggedly brings the rim to his lips and downs it all, rules are rules after all. Scrunching his eyes closed as it burns his way down his throat. He shakes his head and opens his eyes, grunting. “Why would you order something so gross?” 

 

Amused, Natasha looks at her own glass. “It’s a dark and stormy, you’re drinking a classic.”

 

When Clint makes it home, much, much later that night feeling more than a little drunk, it’s with something other than reluctance. He’s actually looking forward to climbing into bed, he’s tired and happy. Tonight was....different, filled with noise and company, food and conversation. Drinking wasn’t tasty in the least, but it wasn’t bad, he had fun. It felt like something regular people did. It was different than when Phil and he went out for dinner, or played roles for a mission. Still smiling, he strips and crawls into bed.

 

A few days later he follows Natasha down to the range where they spend the next hour, basically just killing time until their meeting with Coulson that afternoon. The meeting turns out to be briefing on a short intelligence gathering mission schedule for the end of the week. It’s mostly to get them acquainted with each other, to mesh them as a team.

 

The mission spans five days in Yemen, and ends successfully. There’s definitely room for improvement, but considering that it’s the first time they’ve been out together, it’s good. 

 

Tuesday afternoon, two days after getting home from Yemen, he’s just finishing up his report at his desk when Newman comes over, clearly pissed. “Where is it?” She demands.

 

Confused, Clint looks up at the petite woman. “Where’s what?” And since when did people start talking to him here?

 

Newman glares at him and looks around his desk and hisses, “You know what.” Before spinning back around and stomping back to her desk on the other side of the room.

 

His phone chimes with an incoming text. Shaking his head, he pulls it out of his pockets and reads the message. ‘Come to the roof, or the pigeon dies!’ What the hell was up with people today? With a sigh, he gets up and makes his way to the elevator. His phone chimes again, ‘Ham sandwich.’ He switches directions and stops at the Mess to grab lunch and then makes his way to the roof.

 

He pushes the heavy door to the roof open and looks around but doesn’t immediately spot anyone, so he strolls around some of the structures and past the landing pad towards the eastern corner. He finds Natasha sitting barefoot on a plush black cushion leaning back against a stairwell wall. She’s found a private corner on the roof. He lowers himself down to the hard ground across from her to lean against the other wall and passes over her lunch and a cup of coffee.

 

“You look cozy.” He says, taking a bite of his own sandwich.

 

“Newman’s cushion is amazing, I think it’s memory foam.” Natasha bites into her sandwich .

 

Clint tilts his head and glares at her disapprovingly. “You know, she yelled at me for taking it. She’s probably going to poison me now.”

 

“Nah, she doesn’t have the balls.” She replies, all serious. The weather is beautiful today. The wind is calm; with the sun high in a cloudless sky. They finish lunch quietly.

 

Clint glances at her feet. “Why are you barefoot?” 

 

She looks at him playfully and passes him a small bottle of nail polish. “Paint my toes?” She stretches her legs out to rest her feet on his thigh.

 

Clint tenses, tearing his eyes from the bottle of red polish, to her bare feet resting solidly and warmly on his thigh and then up to her face. He’s aware he probably has that deer in the head lights look, but he’s sort of just frozen in place. He’s gotten used to her brief touches, the finger pokes and elbows to the ribs, but this seems uncomfortably intimate and worryingly wrong. He half expects somebody to yank him away, trying to stay calm, he looks around the roof, half expecting someone to jump out and yell at him.

 

Natasha nudging him with her toes brings his attention back to her; he swallows as he stares back at her. She has that assessing look on her face again which makes him more uncomfortable, before she arches an eyebrow. “It’s not like disarming a bomb you know.”

 

Clint exhales, heart starting to slow back down. “At least there’s a training course for that.” Calm, be normal. He bends over to take a closer look at her feet, and unscrews the top of the polish. Painting toes, how hard could that be? Other people did this shit all the time, right? He unscrews the brush from the bottle and hurriedly shoves the tip back in before a glob of red paint can plop onto the ground. More carefully this time, he pulls the brush out and scrapes the sides free of polish, leaving a small amount just on the tip of the brush.

 

She watches him slowly and meticulously start to paint her big toe nail. “How did you end up with Shield?”

 

Clint doesn’t bother to glance up from what he’s doing but shrugs. “Coulson saved me from freezing in the snow, alone in a backyard.” He moves on to the second toe, using short strokes of the brush. She doesn’t say anything to that.

 

He’s half way done the second foot when he hears soft footsteps coming over. He tenses, not sure what to do, somebody is going to catch him and there’s nowhere to go. It’s not like he can hide the polish, or Natasha’s bare feet, so he freezes, staring at her shiny red, perfectly pedicured toenails. He smells it’s Coulson before his handlers shadow falls across him. He swallows, thinking this is probably the worst thing that could happen right now and waits for something awful to happen.

 

“Is that Jungle Red?” Coulson asks, the tone of his voice is warm. 

 

Natasha answers, “Bordeaux Red.” She digs the ball of one foot into his leg, nudging him.

 

Clint’s eyes slide over to the perfectly creased dress slacks of Coulson’s pants and slide up until he’s tilting his head back, exposing his throat to look up at the other man. Squinting up at Coulson’s dark silhouette against the bright blue of the sky, but his posture looks relaxed, his fingers are loose at his sides and his voice had that gentle cadence to it. “Hey Boss.”

 

“Barton.” Coulson acknowledges, reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a key card and holds it to Natasha. “You’ll be needing this to get back into the building when you’re both done braiding each other’s hair.”

 

Eyes widening, Clint twists around to glare at Natasha. “Did you know we we’re locked out on the roof?” It’s almost a relief to have something else to focus on.

 

She tucks the key card into one of her discarded boots, looking completely unperturbed as she comfortably leans back again. “Hey Coulson, you get my request for a new alarm clock?”

 

Clint’s still holding the drying nail polish brush between three fingers, and cradling the bottle in the other hand. His shoulders have dropped slightly with the easing of his tension, but this is still foreign ground. He looks back up at Coulson, waiting for something to happen.

 

Coulson takes a step back “I did. There are no alternative alarm clocks for you requisition.” He gives them both a last, blandly amused look. “Agents, enjoy your lunch.” Before fluidly striding away, his shiny black dress shoes making very little noise.

 

Clint takes a deep breath and lets his shoulders slump, both surprised and relieved. He looks back over at Natasha. “You had no idea we were locked up here.” He accuses.

 

Natasha just shrugs her shoulders. “I would eat you if we were starving to death.”

 

Clint shakes his head dumbfounded, cause what the...where did this shit come from? The most random shit came out of her mouth sometimes. “Well, that’s good to know.” He dips the brush back into the polish bottle to wet the tip, and goes to paint the next toe.

 

 

A week later she literally corners him on the treadmill in the gym, standing on the side rails on the back. “Come spar with me.” 

 

Clint hits the kill button on the machine, waits for the tread to stop then turns around to face her, trying very hard not to lean backwards to give himself a little more space. “No.” 

 

She narrows her eyes. “Yes.” It’s a mini stand-off until she continues. “Come on, nobody else will.”

 

That’s odd; he figured people would be dying to spar with her, the great Black Widow and all. “Look, I outweigh you and I’m stronger, it’s not a good match.” The thought of having her all over him isn’t very appealing either. Her eyebrows rise almost comically, and Clint’s not sure what emotion to associate with that; was she surprised?

 

Natasha crosses her arms. “Tell you what, you pin me in the first five minutes and I’ll never ask again.”

 

She could be annoyingly stubborn and he didn’t doubt if he tried to walk away right now she’d do something weird and sneaky. He can manage five minutes on the mats with her, there was no way he wasn’t going to pin her, not with his added Fenrir strength and speed. He sighs dramatically before saying, “Ok, five minutes.”

 

He follows her to the mats across the room, it’s late in the evening and the gym is almost vacant. The other two agents working out are over using the weights. He steps up on the mats and softens his knees into a slight crouch. “Whenever you’re ready.”

 

Natasha smiles broadly back at him and sashays towards him. Confused, Clint straightens a bit wondering if she’s starting or stretching, maybe coming over to give him another set of rules? She’s just over an arm’s length away when she drops and kicks out at his legs, and he’s so surprised he can’t do more than try to leap backwards. He feels her foot connect with his leg, but he’s able to balance back on the other one and push away from her. 

 

And from there she spins, jumps, falls, dodges and strikes out in a flurry of limbs and red hair. She’s all smooth grace and fluid power, her hits are hard and when she grabs for him, he’s surprised with the strength of her hold. She’s unlike anything he’s seen before. He’s completely on the defensive when he surprisingly finds himself on the mat face down. She has one of his arms twisted up between his shoulder blades, a first in his hair pulling his head back and forcing him to arch his back, and is sitting on one foot which is folded up to his ass. He’s well and truly pinned to the matt.

 

She jerks his head back further still with the fist in his hair and says, “I win.”

 

Eyes wide and neck muscles straining, he concedes defeat. “Fuck, ok, you win.” Jesus, he should probably find and read the file on her.

 

She promptly lets go and gets up to stand there looking at him smugly. “Winning isn’t just about size and strength.”

 

The mat smells of old sweat, its super gross. He pushes up onto his knees and over onto his ass. “Ok, we can spar.” Because holy crap, that was amazing, Natasha definitely had mad skills.

 

A week later Natasha leaves on a solo mission. Clint’s a little confused about it, since he was under the impression they were a team, but he doesn’t ask Coulson for any details. He supposes he should be happy that Coulson informed him about her departure the day before, and that Natasha was good enough to say goodbye. Well, if “Don’t eat my chocolate!” qualified as a goodbye. 

 

The first couple of days are fine; he goes back to his routine before Natasha came to Shield. But on the fourth day when he goes to sit at his desk, his gaze keeps sliding to the empty one beside him. By noon, he slides his chair over to her desk and tries to open the drawer he knows she stashes her chocolate. The drawer doesn’t open. He looks around the room, but nobody is paying attention to him. He rolls back to his desk, grabs some tools and rolls back over to force the lock open, all stealth like. Grinning like a fool, he swipes the box of Purdy’s chocolates, closes the drawer and rolls his chair back to his own desk. He eats half the box.

 

By the weekend his overly anxious to see Phil, he’s restless and can’t seem to sit still all Friday night. His apartment feels too quiet and small, the book he’s been trying to read all week doesn’t hold his interest at all. There’s nothing on TV and leaving it on for background noise irritates him, so it’s back to the quiet. He thinks about going out for dinner or a drink, but going out on his own isn’t appealing at all. Finally, sometime after midnight he gives up and goes out for a run. He runs until his legs start to feel wobbly and his throat burns from thirst. When he makes it home, he strips, showers and shifts to his Wolf and curls up on the bed. 

 

The next morning he’s up early, and proceeds to roll around on the sofa, chair and carpet, systematically scenting everything. When his phone chimes, he shifts back, checks it and goes for a shower before going up to meet Phil. The weekend is good, they run errands, do dinner, take a drive and Clint takes every opportunity to initiate sex. On Sunday when Phil pulls out some paper work, he’s reluctant to pull away. Compromising to himself, he slides over to the other end of the sofa and stretches out a leg on the cushion so that his toes are lightly touching Phil’s thigh. 

 

Phil drops a hand onto Clint’s foot and squeezes. “I won’t be long.”

 

The following week Clint spends as much time in Coulson’s office as he can get away with, lounging on the sofa and listening to the other man work. Feeling like he’s pushing the line of being annoying and intrusive. He didn’t realize how much he’d gotten used to having Natasha around, of how much time they spent together. He misses her. 

 

On Friday he knocks on Coulson’s door just before he’s about to leave for home and enters when he hears ‘come in’ echo through the door. Hand still holding the door handle, he draws in a big lungful of air and on the exhale blurts out “Hey Boss, when does Natasha come back?” And waits, not totally expecting an answer.

 

Coulson lays his pen down on the desk and stretches his shoulders back. “She should be back Monday, barring any changes. Would you like me to let you know when she gets in?” 

 

Wow. “Uh, yeah that’d be great. Thank you.” That went better than he thought, actually way better. And easy. “You want to get dinner tonight, if you’re not busy?” Might as well go for broke.

 

Coulson shakes his head, “Sorry, Maria and Jasper want to go for drinks tonight. How about breakfast tomorrow morning?” 

 

Well it was a long shot anyhow, and considering how he’s practically been smothering the other man, totally understandable. He smiles and says, “Pancakes?”

 

Coulson chuckles, “Sure, Pancakes sound good. Have a good night Clint.”

 

 

Natasha makes it back Monday at eleven in the morning, Clint knows because he got the text from Coulson. He waits until noon before he starts searching for her. He checks all the areas she might be but comes up empty. By one-thirty he’s standing outside her quarters, this is the last place he can think of, and knocks. He waits, cocking his head to listen, hearing something rustle inside, but no footsteps so he knocks again, longer. This time the door swings open to a clearly tired and grumpy Natasha, which makes him smile like an idiot.

 

“I ate your chocolate.” He says, and thrusts out a plastic wrapped blueberry muffin. “So I got you a muffin from the Mess.”

 

She stands there a moment looking at the muffin then back at him. “You brought me a muffin from the Mess...how does a Mess muffin make up for quality chocolates?”

 

“I’ve heard that it’s the thought that counts.” He shakes the muffin at her.

 

“You’re an idiot.” But she takes the muffin from his hand and walks back inside.

 

Clint stands in the doorway awkwardly; he wants to follow her but can’t make his feet move. He frowns as he realizes he’s probably going to have to wait for her to come and hang out with him later.

 

She calls out to him irritably, “Get in here and close the damn door.” She flops down on her bed and peels the plastic wrap off of the muffin.

 

Clenching his teeth together in apprehension, he forces himself through the doorway, the click of the door closing shut behind him seems overly loud in his ears. He looks around the room quickly and heads over to the chair at the desk in the corner and sits down.

 

“Hey.” She says.

 

He looks over to Natasha, who chucks a book at him. He catches it and turns it over to read the title.

 

“Read to me?” She asks, taking another bite of muffin. “This tastes like shit, by the way.”

 

He grins, “I know, I had one earlier.” And it’s not too bad being in here; it’s actually kind of nice. He looks at the book; he’s never read out loud before. He leans back getting comfortable, opens the first page and starts reading. The room smells of blueberry muffin, dusty clothes, peppermint and Natasha. The tension in his chest melts away as the story slowly unfolds. 

 

The following Wednesday Clint makes it home around five, earlier than usual but with Coulson busy and Natasha out doing some course, he’s got nothing else to do. He pushes the front door open and stops, staring somewhat confusedly at Natasha sitting on his kitchen counter with a glass of red wine. “Where did you get the wine?” Wait, probably not what his first question should be. “How did you get in here?”

 

Natasha raises a delicate eyebrow, “Really?”

 

Clint shakes his head, ok that was a silly question. “How do you even know where I live?” He pushes the door closed behind him, and notices the two grocery bags on his counter by the stove.

 

She takes a sip of wine and tilts her head amused and repeats, “Really?”

 

He takes a peak into one of the grocery bags, there’s cans of tomatoes, tomato paste, spices, ground turkey and pasta. “Whatever.” Yeah, also a dumb question. “Are you making dinner?” He asks excitedly, because that would be awesome.

 

“No, you’re going to make us spaghetti. I’m going to enjoy your hard work.” She twirls her glass, sloshing the deep red wine inside.

 

“I’ve never made spaghetti before.” He’s been off and on with the cooking for months now, having kind of given up on it.

 

Natasha points to a recipe book on top of the microwave, already opened. “I already found a recipe in your cook book.”

 

Clint looks quizzically at the book and then back at Natasha. “My cookbook? How long have you been here?”

 

“Long enough to snoop around for a recipe.” She says.

 

“You snooped?” He asks. There’s not much in his apartment, but the thought of her touching his shit doesn’t really bother him.

 

“Of course I snooped, it’s what I do.” She looks at him quizzically.

 

“I wouldn’t snoop through your place.” It would just feel....wrong.

 

Natasha take a sip, “That’s because I’m a better spy than you. 

 

“I’m good at it when I’m working.” He defends himself, because for all his personal issues, he’s damn good agent.

 

“Every moment is work, to survive; sometimes there can’t be two halves.” She says somewhat solemnly.

 

Clint starts pulling everything out of the bags, thinking about that. Maybe applying his skills to everyday situations would help? He pulls his shoulders back, he doesn’t need any more introspective bullshit right now, he’s doing fine. He pulls the recipe book off the microwave, skims through the instructions and ingredients list, and then bends down to pull pots and a frying pan out of the cupboard. He’s never had anybody in his space before; Phil’s been in of course but never actually to spend any time here. 

 

Dinner turns out pretty good, even if it takes longer than what the books estimate is for prep and cook time. They avoid the table and set their plates on their laps while sitting on the sofa, a horror movie playing quietly on the TV. 

 

Natasha twirls the long spaghetti pasta around her fork, “Clint, where’s your cat?” She plops the forkful into her mouth.

 

“My what?” Confused, he looks around his apartment, wondering what gave her the impression of pets.

 

She points her empty fork at the sofa. “The long black hair.”

 

Clint can’t help it, he bursts out laughing, he hadn’t even thought about the hair he’s shed all over the place. He shakes his head and takes another bite of pasta, and doesn’t answer her.

 

She narrows her eyes at him but doesn’t ask again about the hair, letting the subject drop. Clint takes their empty dishes to the kitchen and tidies up, loading the dishwasher and putting everything away. He goes back to the sofa, moving a cushion behind his back and resting his feet up on the coffee table. Natasha curls up next to him, head on the sofa arm and feet propped on his thighs. He tenses for a brief moment, before relaxing and dragging the blanket off of the back of the sofa and draping it over her. 

 

He can’t help the stupid small smile that stretches his lips, feeling completely pleased at the moment. His small apartment feels like home right now, warm instead of lonely. The heat from Natasha’s feet on his lap, a pleasant point of contact, the sound of her breathing breaking the usual suffocating quietness. She smells like wet flowers in summer, her hair smells of something light and fruity and her breath, still of dinner. She feels like family.

 

The movie ends and they watch another until his eye begin droop, content and tired he reluctantly moves to get up. He picks her feet up and places them on the sofa and re-arranges the blanket so it’s covering her completely. He hands her the remote, muttering, “Good night.” He flicks the lamp off on his way to the bedroom. He falls asleep quickly knowing Natasha is out in the living room, happy he’s not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this has taken an inordinately long time, but the rest will be posted in a timely manner.
> 
> Enjoy

Clint’s not sure how Natasha manages to ditch Shield barracks before the mandatory year end, but two months later he’s out apartment hunting with her. And unlike when he had to find a place to live, he enjoys browsing rental advertisements and traipsing around Manhattan to look at places with her. Although to be fair, Coulson did most of the work and arranged all the details, he just hadn’t wanted to leave Shield at the time. 

 

They spend most of their time looking at places near and around Central Park, and Clint can honestly say he’s never seen so much of the city before. Most of the places he follows Natasha to are newer, spacious and in nice neighborhoods. He notices that most of the floor plans are the same; long narrow kitchens and small rooms, something he’s not a big fan of and neither is Natasha. 

 

On a Saturday afternoon, nearly two months into their search, they park their borrowed Shield car on Central Park street north and walk up to the lobby doors of a tall apartment building to meet another lady from the property rental company. She greets them with a wide smile and shakes both their hands, clutching a clipboard snuggly to her chest with the other. She talks rapidly while leading them through a huge hotel style lobby, complete with concierge and doorman, over to the elevator. He half listens to the property manager talking about the building, it’s provided amenities and the surrounding area with its nearby convenient transportation hubs. The elevator is spacious and bright; stainless steel panels line the sides and at the back; a floor to ceiling, spotless mirror that still smells faintly of glass cleaner. The property agents voice almost echoes inside as she continues to prattle on about the building. When the doors mercifully open onto the nineteenth floor, she’s still babbling. 

 

He looks around the hallway, it’s the penthouse floor and there are only two other doors besides the one the property agent is opening. He likes the idea of fewer neighbors. Bringing up the rear, he distractedly swings the door shut behind him as he enters the apartment. He’s greeted by a respectably sized closet by the door and a long wide hallway that opens into a huge kitchen and then living area, separated only by the different flooring. The kitchen is large with gray slate tile flooring which complements the white marble counter tops. The kitchen appliances, cupboards, drawers and sink line the entire wall, leaving the kitchen open and spacious except for the island counter. Everything is new and modern.

 

The living room has dark hardwood floors that shine with the early evening sun streaming through the streak free windows. The far wall is almost completely, floor to ceiling beautiful windows with an uninterrupted view of Central Park. He can see the large, covered patio out the windows, with its sleek grey metal hand rails framing segmented glass partitions. The entire apartment feels open and airy with all the natural light. Two doors on either side of the large living room open into what he presumes are the bedrooms.

 

He strolls back to the entryway hall and pops his head into the main bathroom which is ridiculously big; it has a long, two sink counter and a glass walled standing shower, with a deep, sloped bathtub beside it. Jesus, he should have actually looked for his own apartment, he had no idea what was out there.

 

He steps back and makes his way to one of the bedrooms, which again, ridiculously big, with its own private balcony and bathroom. With a huff, he goes back to the living area and joins Natasha out on the main balcony, the breeze is gentle, the sounds from the street below muted and the setting sun is warm on his face. He stands beside her quietly, appreciating the view.

 

She elbows him in the ribs once, her pointy little elbow digging into bone. “I’m going to take it.” She tilts her head slightly to eye him with a slightly arched eyebrow. “It allows pets, so you can bring your cat over.”

 

He can’t stop the chuckle that pops out, fuck he finds the cat thing hilarious, it’s becoming a running joke between them. “I don’t have a cat.”

 

She purses her lips together amused. “Fine, bring your neighbor’s cat.”

 

“Maybe you should wait until you actually sign the papers for the place, before stealing my neighbor’s cat.” He looks out at the park just across the street, how convenient is that? “What’s the rent for this place?”

 

“About six grand a month.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

 

What? “Holy shit, Tasha, what does Shield pay you?” Maybe that’s why Coulson went apartment hunting mostly without him. 

 

She tilts her shoulders and faces him, clearly enjoying herself, “More than you? Besides, you can’t put a price on what the heart wants.”

 

He looks at her, completely dead-panned, “My heart wants to switch apartments.” 

 

She looks back at him, unmoved. “That was a onetime offer.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Natasha moves in at the end of the week, after she has all the windows replaced with ballistic glass and installs a better security system. When Clint comes over the day after, the whole place is already furnished and decorated. Which, what the hell, who did she hire to get all her shit done so fast?

 

Life settles into a pleasant new rhythm. They deploy on new missions on a frequent basis, which keeps him busy and works to bring them all closer. Mission length varies; sometimes they’re gone days, sometimes weeks and memorably, two months in Croatia. They become impressively effective as a team. As a result he spends more time with Coulson now, than he did the previous five years they’ve know each other. 

 

When they’re back in New York, he actually looks forward to his own apartment; time spent there no longer feels so isolating. With Natasha often coming over after work or him going over to her place, his cooking also improves by necessity which quickly turns into honest enjoyment. He appreciates the way Natasha sits at the counter while he’s in the kitchen, the way she devours the food he makes for her, and the times she compliments him on a tasty meal makes him feel warm and needed. He starts packing dinners into containers and leaving them upstairs in Phil’s fridge for when his handler gets home late from work. It never fails to ridiculously please him when Phil texts him later to thank him. Who knew domestic shit could be so rewarding?

 

Weeks fly by and follow no routine anymore, weekends are no longer time off, and days free are sporadic and unpredictable. As such, Phil and he no longer have weekends together, but he’s more content now than a year ago. He takes infinite comfort in the small gestures of affection between them, Phil’s hand resting on the small of his back in the elevator as they leave for work. The kisses they share in private at home, a prelude to sex. The brush of finger tips over skin in passing. The brief moments they cuddle together on the sofa or after sex are savoured. He doesn’t push for more because he doesn’t feel the need for more, whatever they have together is good. Clint of course is aware of the different types of relationships out there, he watches movies and reads and at times, over hears other people bitching about their partners. But he’s not sure how to define what they are, or what they have, but Phil never broaches the subject. So Clint’s pretty sure that he’s good with the way things are too. He never thought life could turn out so good for him.

 

It’s Thursday morning; one of those rare days he and Phil both have off, and he’s going to make the most of it. He gets up early, showers, shaves and dresses in a tight black t-shirt and comfortable jeans. Outside the window, the fall grey dawn is slowly illuminating the sky. He goes to the kitchen and opens the cupboard by the stove and grabs the small container of coffee he ground last night; he’s started buying the organic, fair trade specialty whole bean bags and holy crap what a difference. He’s found that the pre-ground grocery store coffee tastes like shit, he never thought he’d be picky about something so menial. He slips on a pair of black, casual boots, leaving the laces untied and then grabs his keys lying on the counter top. 

 

He walks out his of his place, locking the door behind him and heads to the elevator and rides it up to Phil’s floor. He steps out and makes his way to Phil’s door, unlocking it, he quietly walks in. The apartment is quiet and he smiles knowing Phil is still in bed, exactly where he hoped he would be. He toes off his boots and goes straight to the coffee maker, dumping yesterday’s coffee and the wet used filter. Opening a cupboard he pulls out a new filter and fills it with fresh coffee. He leans down to open the fridge, grabs the Brita and pours water into the reservoir. He flicks the switch on and begins prepping breakfast, which is going to be pancakes, eggs and bacon. When the coffee maker beeps, he pours two cups, fixing Phil’s just the way he likes it and strolls happily into the bedroom. 

 

Phil’s voice is sleep rough and inviting, “I’d hoped all the banging in the kitchen wasn’t a burglar.”

 

“What banging, I was totally stealthy. Wait, do your burglars regularly make you coffee?” Clint asks.

 

“Only the polite ones do.” Phil shifts his pillow up against the headboard, hair mussed and a happy expression on his face. “Mmmm, it smells amazing. C’mere you.” He pulls the blankets back in open invitation.

 

Clint smiles broadly, and carefully places the mugs on the bedside table before he shucks his t-shirt quickly, along with his jeans and crawls into bed and up against sleep warmed skin. “You smell amazing,” he says. Nuzzling his nose into Phil’s neck and up along his jaw.

 

Phil’s hand moves to Clint’s hip and slides up to his ribs, digging gently into the muscle and tugging until Clint moves to lay on top of him. “Have I told you recently how wonderful it is waking up to coffee in bed?” 

 

Clint glares down at Phil, “Oh really, just the coffee?” He thrusts his hips forward, sliding his already hard cock up against Phil’s stiffening dick.

 

Phil groans approvingly, “Would it be presumptuous of me to hope for breakfast and the newspaper too?”

 

Clint nips at Phil’s chin, lightly dragging his teeth along the stubble. “I guess I should put my pants back on and get a paper.” 

 

Phil’s hand slides further up to rest on the back of Clint’s neck, holding him firmly in place. “Well, let’s not be hasty, you did just get into bed.”

 

Clint makes the motion to get up, pressing back against the solid hand on his neck, “I don’t know, the coffee will get cold.” He teases.

 

Phil all but growls lowly, “Fuck the coffee.” And pulls Clint closer and turns them over so he’s on top and between strong thighs, dragging the covers across the bed in a messy heap. 

 

Clint curls his knees up along Phil’s hips and ribs, heels digging into the older man’s firm ass, dragging him closer. “You sure? I could probably steal one of your neighbor’s newspapers; I think I saw a couple on the hallway floor.”

 

“I’m sure you’re going to make a mess in my sheets.”Phil claims Clint’s lips hard in an open mouthed kiss, using his weight to pin Clint to the bed. “I’m sure you’re going to beg me to fuck you,” he says, before devouring Clint’s lips again.

 

All of Clint’s attention goes to making sure he doesn’t smash teeth and draw blood from those lips. He focuses on Phil’s dancing tongue; the escape of panting breath, the slide of wet lips and the taste of pure want. The hand at the back of his neck slips up into the short strands of his hair, Phil’s fingers tightening, verging on painful, pulling back, baring his throat to the hard graze of Phil’s teeth. Shivers dance down his back, his dick twitches and he humps upwards into the crevice of Phil’s hip. A ragged moan rushes out of the tightness of his throat as Phil nips his way to the juncture of neck and shoulder. 

 

“Fuck, that feels good,” Clint encourages, the words are rough but eager. 

 

Phil releases the rigid hold on Clint’s short blond locks. “Is this why you came here so early? Eager for me to fuck you?” There’s a teasing edge to his morning rough voice.

 

“Fuck, yes.” Clint agrees quickly, the slick friction from his weeping cock along the soft skin of Phil’s hip is maddening. He tries to shift his hips, wanting Phil’s dick to nudge lower. 

 

Phil smirks down at him. “Impatient, aren’t we?” He leans over to palm the small bottle of lube sitting on the bedside table, coating his hand and smearing it over the hard length of his dick. The tight space between their bodies means he inadvertently smears lube on both their stomachs. He nips Clint’s jaw again before obligingly shifting downwards to slide the slick head of his cock between Clint’s ass cheeks, bumping at Clint’s opening and sliding maddeningly over and past it. Phil is a dirty tease.

 

Clint lifts his hips in a bid to help, to try and get Phil’s cock where he wants it, he’s so god damn horny. “Fuck...would you.. Ahh..” Use your words, god dammit. “Fuck me.....Please” There, that’s it. He may have missed those horny teenage years people talk about, but he’s definitely making up for time lost.

 

Phil drops down and nips at his neck again, rough stubble scratching at his tender skin, he can smell the sweat mixing with the scented remnants of Phil’s conditioner in his short hair. 

 

Phil shifts to snake a hand between their bodies to position his cock at Clint’s asshole, “This  
what you want?” He asks teasingly.

“Yes, god dammit, I want your cock in me.” Clint growls pleadingly.

 

Phil cants his hips forward slowly, pressing until the muscle gives and the head of his cock slides in. Halting there, he brings his hand up to his mouth to gather spit and then brings it down to spread it around Clint’s entrance. 

 

Clint hikes his legs higher while Phil moves to brace himself back on both arms on either side of him, smearing lube and spit from his hand onto the sheets. When Phil finally moves his hips forward ever so slowly, his impressive, slick girth stretching Clint out is utterly delightful in its intensity. His fingers clench into the heated skin of Phil’s back, while groaning his approval into Phil’s rough jaw line. His eyes flutter shut when he feels balls against his ass, completely impaled on Phil’s thick length. His muscles slowly relax as he acclimates to the stretched burn in his ass, his hard dick twitches along his handler’s belly, it’s good, it’s so good. He kicks the covers off of them, already too hot.

 

There’s a moment of stillness before Phil shallowly withdraws and then thrusts in again slowly, continuing this way until the tightness eases a bit more. When it becomes a snug, smooth slick glide in and out, Phil quickens the pace into a toe curling steady humping in short order, hips snapping into him powerfully. “Much better.” Phil growls into his ear, before he raises himself up so that he’s sitting up between Clint’s legs, dick still deep inside and one hand braced on Clint’s muscled chest, the other on the back of a strong thigh.

 

Clint curses, “Ah, Jesus fuck, yeah, right there!” The change in angle causes Phil’s dick to brush against his prostate with every thrust in. His eyes clench shut as he throws his head back and moans loudly, wantonly and without reserve, the heat pooling in his groin and the absolute need to come is intense. He knows he’s not going to last, but he doesn’t want it to be over so quickly.

 

“You close?” Phil asks, voice deep and breathy with exertion and pleasure.

 

“Yes, fuck, so close,” Clint all but gasps, his dick is so fucking hard and the muscles in his thighs are beginning to clench as the pressure builds in his balls. He tries to hold off, but each thrust of Phil’s dick into his ass, strokes the fire higher, until with a yell he’s coming all over his stomach. Phil fucks him hard, harder than before, chasing his own orgasm, and it feels fucking amazing while he’s coming, extends it, milks it. Nerves singing, toes and fingers curling, it feels great; until it doesn’t. Totally spent, every nerve ending that was flushed with want is now over sensitive and he grits his teeth as the sensations become over stimulated. He can feel how hard Phil is, knows he’s close, so he just grits his teeth. It doesn’t take long, and with a grunt and moan, Phil comes, hips slowing into short, gentle thrusts as he spurts inside of him. 

 

Clint smiles up at Phil, hands soothingly sliding up and down his partner’s sweat slick back. He lowers his feet to the bed and waits until Phil’s breathing slows before asking, “Breakfast?” 

 

Phil huffs a satisfied breath and slowly slips his dick free from Clint’s ass and rolls over onto the bed to lie on his back. “How about coffee in bed first?”

 

Clint leans over to the bedside table and pulls a handful of tissues free from the box of Kleenex there, “I could be persuaded.” He passes a few to Phil. 

 

“Thank you,” Phil says as he takes the tissues. “I meant to leave a couple of cloths there last night, but I forgot.”

 

Clint shrugs one shoulder, “Eh, this works.” Then starts to wipe off the cooling mess on his stomach, and the spit and what little mess there is on his ass. He’ll push the cum in his ass out later when he goes to the bathroom. He shifts and stacks the pillows up against the headboard of the bed before sitting back into them and grabbing for the coffee mugs on the table, handing one of them to Phil. “Do you have plans for today?” 

 

Phil lounges next to him, carefully sipping lukewarm coffee. “I have a friend who’s in town for a few days, I’m meeting her for a drink at eight this evening, but free other than that.” He pulls the blankets back over them both.

 

Clint nods, and doesn’t ask who Phil’s meeting or if he’ll be gone all night. It’s none of his business. “Wanna do dinner if you have time?” He takes a sip of coffee, and god damn, even semi warm, it’s awesome. 

 

Phil smiles, “That sounds wonderful, keep in mind I’d like to head out by seven.” 

 

“Yeah, not a problem.” It’s not like eating takes that long, and he can have it ready by six. They haven’t had dinner together in over a week; maybe he’ll pick up some wine too. An elbow nudges into his arm, he looks over at Phil.

 

“I don’t suppose there’s breakfast?” Phil asks, expression hopeful.

 

Clint looks back with a raised brow and replies cheekily, “Who said I was making breakfast? I was just gonna steal your neighbour’s paper and go downstairs to read.”

 

Phil shifts a leg over and rubs the back of his foot along the bottom arch of Clint’s, gently rubbing it up and down.

 

Clint ducks his head and sips his coffee, totally pleased with the affectionate touch. “How do pancakes, eggs, and bacon sound?”

 

“Mmm, perfect,” Phil murmurs contentedly. 

 

Clint finishes his coffee, tosses the blankets aside, gets off the bed and pulls his jeans back on. Stomach growling in hunger he strides away from the bed. He catches a glimpse of Phil’s full laundry basket in the open closet, just as he nears the open bedroom door. After breakfast, he’ll do a load of laundry too.

 

Clint leaves in the afternoon to buy groceries, returns to his own apartment and prepares an elaborate meal for the two of them. Phil arrives, sits at the counter with a glass of wine and his laptop, while Clint juggles things in the kitchen. He has dinner done by six, they sit at the table and eat and he enjoys their easy conversation and a glass of wine. 

 

“This was superb, as it usually is.” Phil says, nodding down to his empty plate. 

 

Clint’s eyes dart to the clock, six-thirty. “Don’t worry about the dishes; I have all night to clean up.” 

 

“Are you in for the evening then?” Phil asks, as he pushes his chair back and stands.

 

“Yeah, no plans.” Clint replies, he’d kept the evening free just in case Phil had wanted to hang out. And he was pretty sure Natasha was busy. He stands as well and follows Phil to the door.

 

Phil stops and turns, grabs for Clint’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you for dinner.” A pause. “Have a good night” He leans in to press his lips to the blonds in a chaste kiss.

 

Clint smiles, “Yeah, you too.” He closes the door and looks back at the dishes on the table and in the sink. Maybe he’ll go to the gym later.

 

 

 

The months pass in a blur, winter freezes New York under a heavy blanket of snow, and by April, Clint’s only too happy they have a mission that takes them somewhere warm and sunny. He meets Natasha in Coulson’s office for their mission briefing early in the morning a day before they’re scheduled to leave. Pausing at Coulson’s desk they each take a folder handed to them before going over to sit on the sofa. Within each folder, are satellite photos of a well maintained, sprawling resort situated by the beach. The property looks like a resort villa, complete with outdoor pool, patio, and big adjacent stone buildings which might be guest rooms. 

Coulson glances down at the laptop on his desk, “Shield undercover intelligence agents have pulled together information about an international cell of terrorists that are working out of a well hidden base on this island, camouflaged as an aging resort. Our analysts were able to uncover paperwork showing it was purchased by a small tourism company that’s owned by the Paragon Corporation. All of which are shell companies, the Paragon Corporation has direct ties to the Enclave. An ethically ambiguous-at-best, conglomerate of scientists; who basically want to rule the world. “

‘Well shit’, Clint thinks as he fingers curiously through some of the other pages in the folder, ‘that’s never good’.

Coulson voices draws him back quickly to the briefing, “Shield believes they’ve kidnapped three scientists to help create a weaponized version of the VX-92 chimera toxin.“ Coulson taps a manicured forefinger on the mouse pad. “We have the original schematics for all the structures, but we won’t know what additions or changes have been made inside until you get in there. Satellite imagery of the area can only confirm that the old resort has not been altered on the outside and is routinely patrolled by men in civilian clothing. We have a rough estimate of approximately twenty soldiers on the premises from the team on-site doing reconnaissance.”

Clint’s grudgingly impressed, you got to hand it to this anti-government group; it’s a perfect place to set up your secret base. It’s a testament to Shield’s resources, agents, and technology that they even know about this location. He stops flipping through pages and looks at three photos, two of middle-aged men and one guy who looks like he’s barely twenty; all wearing white lab coats. “This guy is a scientists, he barely looks old enough to vote .” He says.

 

Coulson nods, “He’s actually thirty-five. They’re at the top of their field and very well known and respected, they must be retrieved unscathed.” Here he pauses for emphasis. “You two will be infiltration; we need to be quick and quiet. You’re breaking into a Bio-hazardous laboratory, neutralize all threats effectively, cut communications, secure all data and corresponding bio weaponry.”

Natasha cuts in, “Who’s our back up team?” She’s curled up on the sofa with her chin resting on a knee tucked close to her chest, sitting half on her other foot, looking comfortable and small. 

Coulson continues seamlessly, “Ceaber’s team will liaison with us, they’re already on site doing the surveillance and will be your perimeter security team. They will transfer the scientists and secure the premises for the Shield hazmat and science teams take over.” 

Clint’s jaw clenches irritably and he can’t help but blurt out, “Ceaber’s a douche.” He hates that uppity little fuck. Ceaber has no shortage of friends at Shield, he’s one of those charismatic fucks with a mean streak that nobody else see’s and it drives him nuts. The agent never seems to be alone when Clint runs into him, which only makes it more embarrassing when Clint has to bite his tongue and walk away from whatever asshole comment Ceaber has to say. He doesn’t know how he initially caught Ceaber’s attention, but in the end it doesn’t matter. For the last four years, Ceaber’s just another Shield agent he goes out of his way to try and avoid. 

 

Coulson stills, sitting straight with his shoulders back when he looks over at Clint, his gaze steady and cold, before continuing. “You’ll conduct yourself professionally.”

 

Clint breaks eye contact quickly and ducks his head to instead look at the pages in the open folder. Sometimes he falls into this slippery slope of complacency, gets too comfortable and forgets it’s not his place to say stupid shit. He did promise to play nice with his fellow Shield agents all those years ago. He has it good, he’s been gifted all the things he never thought he’d have. He can deal with a few fuckwit asshats....he breathes in deep and lets it out slowly. But fuck, sometimes it’s still hard putting up with bullshit like Ceaber. He’s good at his job and if he does right by Coulson, that’s all that really matters. He relaxes his jaw, pushes all this shit to the back of his mind and looks up. “Of course, sorry Sir.”

Coulson’s gaze switches over to Natasha as he says, “Go pack, I’ve listed required equipment on page twenty-five along with your regular kit. We leave tomorrow morning at four am.” His tone is brusque, professional and dismissive.

Clint stands up with Natasha, keeping his body language relaxed and follows her to the door. Slowing he looks over, his face neutral, and respectfully utters a curt, “Sir.” Before stepping out. 

In the hall Natasha looks over at him as they walk, her eyes linger a touch too long and he knows it’s about the reprimand he got in the office. It embarrasses the fuck out of him, he can just imagine what she’s thinking, the last thing he wants is for both her and Coulson to be disappointed in him. His chest feels heavy, but he knows how to avoid trouble and awkward conversations. He elbows her in the ribs, “You owe me a stapler and breakfast.” 

She doesn’t look at him as she replies. “You know where your stapler is.”

He does, it’s on Agent Hill’s desk, along with two others, a template for filling out an A-2 form, a small tactical flashlight, a mug with an archery target stamped on the side, and cup full of pens. All of which, are his. “It was an April Fools joke, which I remind you, is only on the first.” He’d glued all her stationary to the bottom of her desk. “It’s the tenth Tasha.” He pauses as they pass another agent walking towards them in the hall. “Seriously though, I need that stapler, Kimberly in Supply won’t issue me another.”

She looks over with a tilt to her lips, “You mean, April Fools is only restricted to the one day?” She asks, completing ignoring the rest.

Well shit, that didn’t bode well for him. “Yeah, just the one day. One day of the year. “They continue down the hall to the elevator, where Natasha hits the button for the ground floor. “Hey, how about I buy you breakfast?” 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

They travel to the Greek Island of Kea, where the scenery is exceptional. On their way from the small airfield to their villa in the small port town of Otzias, they drive through a scenic landscape. Beautiful beaches and rolling hills dotted with traditional white stone houses with orange roofs, clumped together to form small villages. 

 

Their villa is a few short steps next to the two Ceaber’s team are staying in, and even though they’re all self contained buildings, Clint detests being so close to the man while he sleeps. And of course when they arrive, Coulson meets up immediately with Ceaber, leaving Clint and Natasha to thankfully haul all their equipment into their Villa. The Rental is comfortable but nothing fancy, the building itself is old. But it’s a large suite with two rooms, a large living room with an old comfortable looking sofa and a smaller quaint kitchen complete with a heavy wooden table.

 

Natasha strolls into both rooms, back tracks to the first and throws her bag on the bed and calls out, “Dibs.”

 

Clint leans into the doorway, arms crossed. “Did you just claim the biggest room, again?” 

 

She cocks a hip to the side looking smug, “You want to ‘rock-paper-scissors’ for it?” 

Clint shakes his head, he fucking hates that game. He’s not sure how she does it, but she always wins. “You gloat when you win. I’ll take the sofa.”

He walks over to the kitchen table and carefully places Coulson’s equipment bag on the scratched and worn surface. The late afternoon breeze is salty and warm as it wafts in through the open windows, he breathes deeply of sun warmed earth and sea as he turns to go back for his own small carry bag. He kneels on the floor where he dropped it by the sofa and rummages through the contents. “Hey Nat” He’s interrupted as the door opens and Coulson walks through the entryway, seeing that it’s just Coulson he continues. “ I don’t suppose you packed an extra pair of sunglasses?” 

Coulson glances down at Clint as he walks past. “I packed yours in my bag, thought you might forget them.” He says as he makes his way to the kitchen table.

“Oh, thanks” He scrunches up his nose in distaste at the smell of cigarette smoke wafting from his handlers wool suite as he passes, the odour stubbornly clinging to the expensive material. Hopefully smoking like the Marlboro man will blacken Ceaber’s lungs with cancer. One can only hope.

His stomach rumbles and he glances at his watch, getting here took awhile and it’s nearly four. With not much else to do right now, he might as well be useful.

“So, how about I go find us some dinner?” He waits for both of them to nod in agreement, before he grabs his wallet and heads out, strolling through narrow streets in the tiny town, until something particularly yummy wafts past his nose. He follows the smell of spices and meat to a small restaurant and orders three separate dishes for each of them. His cell phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out and reads the text, frowning. *please pick up dinner for ten.* Fucking perfect, now he’s picking up dinner for that prick and his team too. The thought of being spiteful and getting everyone else salads crosses his mind, but he knows Coulson would be pissed about that. He walks back up to the counter and orders another six dishes.

The walk back is hot, but it’s just past six with the heat of the day starting to fade with a steady breeze to keep him comfortable. It would be so much better if knew he wasn’t walking back to spend who-knew how long with Ceaber and his team. 

 

When he steps into the Villa, it seems so much smaller with so many people inside. Some of the men on Ceaber’s team are big dudes, tall and broad. Every available area to sit, in the living room and kitchen are taken. Coulson is leaning against the kitchen counter talking to Ceaber. Most of the guys are vaguely familiar from seeing them a few times, but the blond leaning against the wall with a shit-eating grin is Agent Donner. One of the recruits he trained with when he first joined Shield. Donner was and still is an asshole and Clint doesn’t regret punching him in the face years ago during a training exercise and breaking his nose. A short lived victory due to Coulson displeasure with him afterwards, and since then Donner always goes out of his way to harass him. It’s just fucking perfect that he’s ended up on Ceaber’s team. 

 

Annoyed and trying to be nonchalant, he makes his way over to the sofa where Natasha is sitting and hands her, her take-out container. He passes the two bags with Ceaber’s teams dinner off to the big guy sitting next to her on the sofa.

 

“Shit, thanks for dinner man, smells good.” The big guys says, as he opens the bag and breathes in deeply, before he pushes himself up and starts handing out containers to his team.

 

Clint hands utensils to Natasha before making his way over to Coulson, where he sets the bag on the counter to dig out his handlers’ dinner, pointedly ignoring Ceaber sitting at the table. “Here you are, Sir.”

 

Coulson takes the Styrofoam dish. “Thank you Barton.” 

 

Of course before Clint can walk away, Ceaber pipes up with a god damn pleasant looking smile. “Yeah, thanks for getting dinner for everyone Barton, was nice of you.” And fuck, if it sounds genuine.

 

Clint does nothing; he knows Coulson is watching him, in fact it feels like everybody is watching him. They’re not of course, but he’s not going to look to find out. Irritated and stressed he walks over to the sofa with smooth, relaxed strides, where he unfortunately has to take a seat on the floor by Natasha’s feet. It’s not the position he wants to be in with so many people around, but he wants to keep as quiet and draw as little attention to himself as possible. 

 

He picks at his food, uncomfortably aware of everybody in the room, different tones of murmured conversation, the smell of food mingling with the body odor of the sweating men sitting in a stifling warm area, even though the air conditioner is maxed out. The wet, smacking sounds of food being chewed, voices being vaguely distorted as people talk with half masticated food sitting in their mouths. Clint grinds his teeth together, annoyed and all together no longer hungry. 

 

He stays on the floor, picking with his fork at the un-eaten take-out container on his lap. The conversation eventually picks back up to the mission for tomorrow night as everyone finishes eating. Coulson leads them through the operation parameters, mission details, and answers questions carefully and thoroughly. Which honestly doesn’t take long, everybody in the room is a seasoned Agent and to Clint’s great relief they don’t linger long before retreating to their own Villa.

 

As the door closes on the last of Ceaber’s team, Natasha nudges his hip with her toe, motioning to his congealing dinner with her chin. Clint scrunches his nose at it in disgust and then looks up at her with a pained look, “Too much soy.” He lifts it up towards her, waving it about. “Still hungry?” 

 

She pushes against his ribs with her foot. “Go throw it out, you uncivilised heathen.” 

 

“Yes Ma’am.” Pushing himself up, he makes his way to the trashcan in the kitchen. Coulson’s moved to sit at the table in front of his laptop. He dumps his leftovers in the trash, and then leans back against the counter to look at his handler. “Much to do still?” He asks, tentatively.

 

Coulson sits back, rolling his shoulders to shrug out of his suit jacket, “No, not much.” Twisting at the hips to drape his jacket over the back of the chair, he continues. “Ceaber’s paper work is thorough and well organized.” Nimble fingers deftly push each small, sliver cuff link out through the rectangular slits in the cuffs of his dress shirt, palming them before rolling the cuffs up to his elbows. “I should be finished up in about twenty minutes or so.” 

 

Clint’s eyes follow the strangely erotic sight of Coulson’s muscles moving under defined forearms as he tugs and rolls the crisp white shirt sleeves up past his elbows. Clint can smell the musk of perspiration rising from heated skin trapped in the thin, expensive cotton. 

 

Movement catches his eye and he looks up to watch as Natasha drags over one of the sturdy, black weapon bags over to the table. Unzipping and rummaging around in it, she pulls out a bottle of vodka and plunks it heavily down on the table, smiling at the deep ‘thunk’ of it causes Coulson to look up at her. “Night cap gentlemen?” She asks.

 

Clint shifts over to look at the bag she pulled the booze out of. “You got mix hidden in there too?” Straight vodka is the worst.

 

Natasha arches a finely shaped brow at him. “Weak.” They stare at each other unmoving for several moments, before she bends down again to pull out a bottle of sprite and a small bottle of lime juice. 

 

Clint smiles at her when he sees what she packed for him. “You’re too good to me.” He announces as he turns around to the cupboard and grabs glasses.

 

“Indeed.” Natasha says, cracking the seal as she twists the top off the vodka bottle. “Grab the ice.”

 

“Agents” Coulson interrupts, “Perhaps you can take this outside to the patio while I finish up, yes?” It’s not really a question, but a request.

 

“Yeah, of course.” Clint says as he grabs the ice tray from the freezer and then the two bottles of mix, as Natasha palms two of the glasses and the vodka. The sun set some time ago, the sky already an inky black.

 

The small round patio table is old and wobbles, the off white plastic chairs are probably just as old and flex worryingly as Clint drops his weight into one. The patio itself is made of old brick fitted into the earth, not entirely level anymore, with weeds struggling between the larger spaces. Clint sits back, half listening to Natasha mixing drinks, eyes drifting along the beach not more than a hundred feet away. It’s beautiful and somewhere he’d never entertained the possibility of ever actually being, before Coulson rescued him.

 

There are a few other Villas to the left and right along the beach, pretty little landscape lights in the ground map out walkways and gardens, their illumination stretching weakly into the night only to be enveloped by the dark. He looks up into a cloudless sky, it’s endless vastness, speckled with brilliant, depthless little stars.  
He can hear the Sea’s waves lapping at the wet sand on the shore; smell the salt in the water, and the sea itself. The night sky no longer has a horizon, but dips down to merge into the dark water, which sparkles with the reflection of the stars; like a fun-house mirror wobbling and distorting the image. 

 

The cold, smooth curve of a glass presses against his knuckles and he looks over as Natasha pushes his drink at him, her eyes also fixed on the sea. He takes it from her and brings it to his lips, sips. He settles back in the uncomfortable chair, the glass in his hand sweats cool condensation, and neither one of them speaks. They sit in the dark, the Villa’s kitchen light spilling out onto the patio through the white curtains covering the glass doors, bathing their backs and muted light.

 

Awhile later the door opens and Coulson pulls a chair up between them. “It’s a beautiful view.” He reaches over to grab the vodka and pours himself a shot.

 

Clint only nods, there’s nothing more to say to that, it is beautiful. Instead they drink, listening to the waves in the distance, there’s music lilting softly from one of the other Villas, but it’s faint in the background. The warm, gentle breeze caresses their skin and brings with it a mellow lassitude that sinks pleasantly into limbs and mind alike.

 

A while later Coulson pushes back his chair, “Well Agents, I trust you’ll be responsible adults and go to bed before dawn.” He gets up, smiles and nods at both of them before going back inside. Presumably off to bed.

 

Natasha waits till the kitchen light winks out, before looking over at him with a wicked looking smile. “Come skinny dipping with me?”

 

He stares at her a moment, “You know Ceaber’s team is right next door.” They’re actually behind their villa, they don’t get the seaside view.

 

She shrugs her shoulders. “Nobody will be able to see us once we’re down in the water, it’s too dark.”

 

It’s almost tempting. “Nope.” Someone from Ceaber’s team could be out, or somebody else for that matter.

 

“Come on, a free night in the Greek Islands, when’s this going to happen again?” She pushes.

 

He looks down at the beach again, even with his keen eyesight he can’t make out much detail. He turns his head ever so slightly, listening for any movement inside from Coulson, but there’s nothing. He looks back at Tasha, feeling guilty for entertaining the idea. “You’ll need a towel...” But fuck if he’s going to go back inside and grab one.

 

Natasha stares at him with that that half quirked tilt to her lips. “Have another drink.” She says before she deftly leaves him to slide back into the darkened depths inside the patio doors. He dutifully pours another drink, mixing in the lime and pop, listening to her moving around inside. She steps back onto the patio holding two white towels, as he’s got the glass to his lips.

 

She jerks her chin to the half empty bottle of vodka. “Bring that with you.” As she walks past him towards the water. He lets out a sigh, teeth gritted and reaches for the bottle, toes off his shoes and stands to follow her, still holding his glass. The cool sand between his toes brings an unbidden smile to his lips, the sound of the waves growing louder with each foot fall.

 

She stops close to the water; turns to him and grins, dropping the towels. He bends to push the vodka bottle securely into the sand and then straightens a towel out to sit on, and plops down, knees slightly bent and leaning back on his palms. Fuck it’s even better out here, further away from the sounds of the resort and the tourists, no ambient light to distract him. The sky seems bigger, the air cooler, the smell of the water and the seaweed more vibrant.

 

A small lump of cloth drops down beside him, he looks at it a second before a pair of pants follows it. He keeps his gaze down, waiting, and sure enough, a bra and the tiniest pair of panties finish off the pile. He tracks Natasha to the water by following her bare feet and shapely calves. Watches as they sink into black water, averts his, waits to look over until she’s mostly submerged. The moon light reflects off of her pale shoulder, her long red locks look black, falling down her back in an indistinguishable dark wave.

 

Natasha turns to look at him, but her expression is hidden by shadows, he raises a hand indicating he’s good right where he is at the moment. The moonlight outlines her upper body, he can see the swell of a breast, before she turns to continue further into the sea. He looks around anxiously again, strains to hear if anybody is around, but it’s devoid of detectable noise. He breathes in trying to scent anybody, but the wind is coming off of the sea. He’s pretty sure there isn’t anybody around, and relaxes a bit. He listens to Natasha moving in the water, she’s swimming now, he can just make out her head above the water line.

 

He finishes his drink, and then takes a swig of the vodka, grimacing at the taste and the fucking awful burn as it slides down his throat. The vapours coming back up make it even worse, but....he takes another big gulp, shaking his head afterwards. He gets up and strips his pants and shirt but keeps his underwear on and before he can pussy out, walks determinedly into the black water. Ears attuned to anybody nearby, he ignores the coolness of the water sliding up his calves as he makes his way further in. He sucks in a breath as he hits waist level and then leans forward and kicks up his feet to push through the water, the rush of cool enveloping his heated skin quickly fades from uncomfortable to soothing.

 

He swims further out with the strong taste of salt on his lips, letting the night envelope him completely. He swims until he can’t touch the bottom, until the beach is an unthreatening distance and treads water, staring up into the sky, smiling. He tracks the sound of Natasha swimming towards him, her gentle breathing and occasional splash. 

 

They tread water beside each other for awhile, until Natasha breaks the quiet, “Do sharks sleep at night?” It comes out serious and questioning.

 

The fuck? His brows crease with concern, “Are you fucking with me? This is not the time or place to be asking that.” He waits, staring at her, but she looks back just as steadfastly. “Tash?” 

 

She grins. “You ever watch Jaws?”

 

He thinks about that for a second, he hasn’t seen that many movies. “No, I don’t think so”

 

“Huh.” Is all she says before asking, “What’s up with you and Ceaber?”

 

He frowns. “Nothing, he’s just an asshole.” The sound of the sea is calming. “I guess I don’t get along with most people.” He doesn’t want to talk about this.

 

They tread water, while watching the stars, the lights in the villa to the far left flick off. “What’s up with you and Coulson?” She asks.

 

He doesn’t want to answer this either, but she doesn’t ask a lot of question so it’s hard to deny her when she does. And really, the answer isn’t a big deal. “Coulson feels I should be a team player.” 

 

She’s quite a while before she splashes him, “C’mon, I’m getting cold.”

 

“Dick move.” He calls out wiping water from his face. He obediently follows behind her, their pace unrushed but steady and soon they hit shallower water. Clint looks around and strains to listen for anybody nearby, as they begin to walk to shore, exposing more and more expanse of naked skin. Well naked for Natasha, but he keeps his gaze averted to safer areas. When he hits the sandy beach he walks a head of Natasha and reaches down for the towels, handing one to her, while still wary and watchful for anybody nearby. When he carefully looks back at her, she’s got the towel wrapped around herself and is holding the practically empty bottle of vodka and the glasses. Clint bends down and grabs all their clothes, and they make their way back to the villa. 

 

Once inside he hands Natasha’s clothes back to her and she disappears into the bathroom. When he hears the sound of the shower running, he drops the towel and slides his wet underwear off, rummages though his pack and slides on a clean pair, along with a t-shirt. He stuffs his wet underwear in a plastic bag and then shoves it to the bottom of his pack, not sure why he feels the need to hide it. Well, that’s not entirely true, sneaking around to swim half naked feels like an entirely elicit activity. He crawls onto the sofa, pulling the thin blanket over himself and closes his eyes. 

 

Natasha comes out of the bathroom, smelling cleanly of soap and flower scented hair conditioner, he opens his eyes and tracks her as she circles the villa, checking all the locks on the windows and doors before making her way to the bedroom. He closes his eyes again and drifts off.

 

Clint wakes, curled up on the sofa to early morning sunshine streaming through the windows. He lays there a moment, considering coffee but not really feeling like getting up, he’s still tired. However, when Coulson opens his bedroom door, already dressed and walks to the kitchen counter, he throws back the blankets and forces himself up. He makes his way over to where Coulson is eyeing the coffee maker, and lightly touches the older man’s shoulder. “I got this, boss.” 

 

Coulson yawns and nods agreeably. “How was the sofa?”

 

Clint starts filling the carafe. “Smells like fish, but reasonably comfy.” The sofa is lumpy, the foam cushions having lost what firmness they might have had when it was new. It’s not comfy at all.

 

Coulson makes a face, “That sounds awful.” He leans against the counter watching as Clint fills the ancient looking coffee maker. “ What did you two get up to last night?”

 

Clint very carefully doesn’t tense. “Drank the rest of the vodka and frolicked on the beach.” His tone is light and teasing.

 

Coulson looks at him, “Uh huh. I’m not going to have Ceaber coming to me with any complaints about last night, am I?”

 

Clint looks at him, “I didn’t key his rental car, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

Coulson stares back, “Good. I really want you to behave like a respectable agent and act appropriately with Ceaber and his team.” 

 

Clint grits his teeth together. “Of course.”

 

Coulson smiles, “Good. You have the day to yourselves until five, at which time we’ll be reviewing updated satellite imagery of the compound and prepping for tonight’s mission.”

 

Natasha walks into the room, and it’s a little surprising because Clint didn’t hear her bedroom door open. “Did I hear that we have the day to be tourists?” She asks.

“Indeed you did.” Coulson replies. “I’m going into town for a little bit, you’re welcome to catch a ride with me if you like.”

 

Natasha grabs a coffee mug from the cupboard and places it beside the slowly percolating machine. “I think I’ll stay near the beach.” 

 

“Breakfast?” Clint asks, looking at both of them.

 

“Not for me, I’m meeting Ceaber and going into town for brunch.” Coulson says, grabbing for the nearly full but still filling coffee pot, to pour himself a cup. 

 

Clint pauses a second at hearing that, he supposes that’s not totally unexpected. 

 

Coulson blithely continues, “But first I’m going to go over the surveillance they have of the compound next door. If you need me, call. Otherwise, I’ll be back this afternoon.” He grabs his suit jacket which is draped over a kitchen chair, shrugging into it. Grabbing his coffee mug, he nods at them both, “Agents.” And heads out.

Clint waits until the door closes behind their handler before he looks over to Natasha. “Breakfast?” He enquires hopefully, feeling annoyed and being irritated that he’s annoyed.

Natasha nods, “After coffee, we can see what’s nearby.”

When they wander back into the villa a couple hours later, it’s nearing noon. Natasha disappears into her bedroom, and he goes to stand in front of the patio door. There’s a few people out on the beach lying on towels, but not too many. Maybe he should organize and clean his kit before tonight.

 

When Natasha’s door swings open, he looks over, a question on his lips, but stops, eyes widening at all her bared, pale skin. She’s wearing cut off shorts, under which are black swim suit bottoms, the little black string ties sit snuggly over her hips, just above the waist band. “What the shit woman? What happened to wearing clothes?” He hisses, eyes darting to the closed front door nervously.

 

She tilts her head and eyes him in that “not-amused” look that is so purely Natasha. “It’s called a bikini; we’re tourists on vacation, on an island, in the Mediterranean, in spring.”

 

He twists back to the patio door, trying to block out as much of the glass with the thin, white curtains as he can. “I know what a bikini is, and it consists of two pieces.” He says, before turning back to her.

 

“Don’t be a prude, besides we went skinny dipping last night.” She snips, hands on her hips, bikini top dangling from one hand at her side, breasts perky and bare.

He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes firmly fixed to hers. “I’m not a prude.” He wasn’t, was he? He didn’t have a problem with nudity in general, not really. He surreptitiously looks around the room again. The muscles in his shoulders tighten; subconsciously waiting for someone to jump out from around a corner and catch him doing something forbidden. His eyes dart back to her, unable to shake the feeling of wrongness, with her standing there nearly nude. She stares back at him, studying him in that unnerving way that makes his skin prickle. He forces his body into a mimicry of calmness, lifting his head out of its downward tilt, but unable to soften his lips, which are still turned down into a pinched frown. 

 

“Worried about my modesty? The door is locked, no one is going to just walk in” Her stance is still loose, hips tilted, and it feels like she’s giving him an ‘out’. She shakes the bikini’s straps hanging from her fingers; making the small black material bounce. “I need you to tie my top,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing.

 

He lets out a breath and quirks a brow, trying to play along. “I’ve seen how flexible you are, you can tie you own damn top,” he says, keeping his gaze firmly above her shoulders.

 

Natasha arches a brow, ignores his discomfort while walking towards him, stopping a step away. She turns around and slips the swim top up over her chest, wiggling the black halter straps at him. “I’m on vacation.”

 

Clint grits his teeth, he knows she’s fucking with him but obliges and ties her top quickly, first the neck ties and then the lower ones. “We’re going to make new fake vacation rules,” he says as he finishes pulling the bow taught. Cause fuck, he does not need the stress.

 

Natasha just ignores him and turns around, “How do I look?” she says, a challenging smirk thinning her lips.

 

He‘s comfortable around Natasha, but it seems like every time he got over one hurdle with her, she threw another at him, keeping him just slightly unbalanced. He slides his gaze quickly down her frame and back up to her eyes. “You look....” Aww, crap. What word to use? “Good.” Lame. 

 

Natasha just smiles while shaking her head. “Uh huh. Come on, let’s go lie on the beach and continue reading that book.” 

 

He relaxes as they head back into familiar territory. “You mean, while I read and you listen.” His shoulders drop as the tension quickly fades. 

 

They drag the big umbrella from the patio down to the beach and set up under it, soaking up the sunshine while getting a bit of shade. The sun is warm on his legs; the breeze brings with it the smell of the sea, hot stone and garlic from someone cooking nearby. It’s relatively quiet, there’s bird song, conversation in Greek somewhere off to the east and the rush of waves hitting the sand. They hang out until nearly dinner before making their way back inside.

 

Coulson’s at the kitchen table in front of his laptop, and Clint’s jaw clenches together in irritation at the sight of Ceaber sitting there as well, also in front of a laptop. And notably a new blond man he doesn’t recognize, who’s got an open folder full of papers on the table in front of him.

 

Ceaber looks up, his expression unreadable until it turns amicable. “Barton. Agent Romanoff.”

 

Clint’s eyes dart to Coulson who’s starring back at him expectantly, and fuck it, whatever, he can play nice. “Ceaber.” He says. He looks back at the blond guy, who dutifully introduces himself.

 

“I’m Agent Briar, my team will be your clean-up crew.” He’s middle age, with a lean build and big blue eyes.

 

Clint nods in acknowledgement before walking over to the sofa to grab his kit bag and heading to the shower. When he comes back out, Ceaber and Briar are thankfully gone. They order in food and then start organizing their kit for tonight.

 

Clint drags his gear bag over to the sofa and tugs out his uniform. He pulls on his black pants with attached knee pads, black t-shirt and clips on his drop-down thigh holster for his pistol. Lays his black tac-vest on the table, and loads the pockets and strapping with the things he’ll need. He sits down on the sofa to slip on his boots and ties the laces. Next is the arm guard, but he holds off on his quiver, he won’t put that on till he’s about to leave, it’s bulky and they have a couple of hours to kill before it’s dark enough to head out. He sets his gloves and handgun down on the coffee table beside his vest.

 

Natasha walks out of her room completely dressed in her all black cat suit and joins him on the sofa, handing him the paperback novel they were reading earlier. He takes it from her and opens it up from the bookmarked page, leans back comfortably into the cushions and continues from where he left off. Natasha lays down, head on the opposite arm and bootless feet on his lap. Coulson’s voice in the background talking on the phone is soothing white noise as he concentrates on the words on the page. 

 

Coulson gently nudges his shoulder three chapters later. “Ceaber and Briar’s team will be here shortly.” They get up and finish dressing. Minutes later there’s a knock on the door before it’s opened, and Ceaber and his team file into the villa, followed by Briar and four other agents. Coulson leads the briefing, dispersing updated information and quickly going over the mission and everybody’s objectives. Clint and Natasha will go in, secure the inside, while Ceaber’s team handles the perimeter. When everything is cleared, Briar will take his team of scientists and techs in and secure all the bio-materials. 

 

Briar walks over and digs two different looking guns out of a fabric case, and hands them over to both Clint and Natasha, along with two replacement magazines for each.  
“Knock out darts, strong enough to keep your targets under for about four to five hours and less hazardous to the surrounding area, since we don’t know what the lab will contain.” Briar explains.

 

Clint looks at the gun, it’s a little bulky. “Why have we never used these before?” he asks, they sound great for all those annoying non-combatants. The ones who run around getting in the way, the screamers, the oblivious idiots, the brazen onlookers; basically anyone who generally irritated the shit out of him.

 

“Well,” Briar starts, “the drug isn’t compatible with everybody, the risk of death is still above an acceptable percentage. R&D is still working out the kinks, so they’re not to be used on high value targets. ”

 

Ah, good to know. “So don’t use them on the scientists. Gotcha.” He secures the extra magazine in a vest pocket, and clips the knock-out gun holster into the left side of his tac vest, before holstering the handgun from the coffee table in the right thigh holster. 

 

Coulson checks his watch and then asks, “Questions?” The room is quiet. “Then let’s gear up and head out.”

 

Clint grabs his gloves and quiver; he tightens the straps, making sure it’s going to stay in place and then goes to the case where his bow is locked. It won’t be great in small spaces inside the villa, but it will be perfect for the silent approach and entry. Natasha has her Widow bites, knives and her exceptional hand-to-hand to rely on for stealth.

 

It’s nearly midnight when they leave their villa in the vehicles. Closer to the resort, all three teams park while only two teams approach the eastern perimeter on foot. There Ceaber’s team branch off in either direction while Clint and Natasha quietly and stealthily continue onwards to the compound. They listen to Coulson on coms, dogging sentries and bypassing cameras and make their way to a side door to the main building. 

 

Crouched low by the door, Clint pauses to listen but doesn’t hear anything on the other side. He nods and waits for Natasha to force entry, which she does quietly, they slip inside with Natasha going right, while he goes left. His first objective is to find whatever passes for the main control room here; his secondary goal is to take out as many enemy combatants as possible. While Natasha is heading straight to the labs, to lock them down and secure all data.

 

With his bow in hand, he moves quickly down a short hall and halts at the doorway into a big, open room where white tables and chairs fill what he assumes is the dining hall. The hallway and this room are both minimally lit with soft yellow lights in aged wall mounted fixtures, spaced far enough apart that large patches of dark shadow eat up most of the area. He pauses just outside the entry way upon hearing soft footsteps coming from the exit door on the other side of the room. He crouches low, spots his target; draws and looses an arrow, a dull thump the only sound as the body hits the floor just outside the exit. He moves forward and hides the body under a table, pulls his arrow out of the man’s left eye and knocks it back on his bow. He exits the room and continues down another wide hallway, pauses by the intersection, looses another arrow, hides the body and knocks the arrow again before making a left towards the lobby. 

 

Coulson continues to direct him. “ There should be a private office just off of the lobby, it makes sense that they might have their communications center set up there.” 

 

“Copy” He stops in the middle of the dark hallway he’s in, which opens up directly into the large lobby area. Minimal lights are on in there as well, but he can see part of the reception desk from where he’s crouched. He hears distant music and the occasional clacking of computer keys and the creaking of what Clint assumes is a chair. He sneaks down the hall along the wall, and halts in the shadows. From here he can see the entire room, the long dark wood reception desk lined with computers and the blond head of the man sitting behind them. Clint watches for a few moments, just to be sure the blond is alone before releasing the gore covered arrow. The shaft sinks into the man’s right eye with a soft wet sound; the blond topples to the ground nosily as the cheap office chair slides backwards to bounce off the wall and crash to the floor.

 

Again he waits and listens, but nobody comes out to investigate. He jogs over, hops up and over the desk, rights the chair and sits down to sort out what kind of system this militant group of crazies are using. No password is needed, the system is already up and running and that will save him some time. He scans and clicks through programs and folders, disconnects the Internet and wi-fi connections, cancels alerts and all notifications and shuts down all security locks, cameras and communications. Next, he opens the bios for the system and resets the access password, effectively locking the whole system down. Fuck, yeah, all those courses he took paid off. “Widow, systems off and hijacked.”

 

“Copy” is Natasha’s short reply.

 

“Ceaber’s team has redirected to the dock, unexpected boat coming in.” Coulson says.

 

He picks his bow up off the desk and makes his way down to the labs which are somewhere in the lower level. He loves this type of mission, where he’s able to methodically hunt and eliminate his targets while he still has the advantage of surprise on his side. He shoots three nameless faces, pulling his arrow out of each one and finally retiring it to his quiver as unusable. And slight bend to the shaft makes it unreliable. He finds the door to the stairs and secures his bow to his back, with the tight quarters it’s not going to be an effective weapon, and pulls out his knock-out gun and cocks it. He opens the door and jogs down the stairs to another solid looking steel door, palms the latch and pulls it open.

 

Where the main floor of the compound had been quiet with its darkened rooms, open windows and complacent guards, down here it’s the complete opposite. The construction of the lower level is state-of-the-art with its sound proofing, sleek metal walls, industrial glass and clean, shiny lab equipment. The sounds of fans pushing air, the hum of motors, and a couple panicked voices wash over him. The hallway is metal struts and load bearing beams, with glass walls and sliding glass doors on either side leading into huge lab rooms. At the end of the hall is a big room made of thick glass walls, inside of which are monitors, computers, and other tech equipment and Natasha bent over a console. 

 

He makes his way towards her, glancing into the rooms on both the right and left, where people lay sprawled unmoving on the floor, wearing white lab coats. By the smell of iron and urine, some of them are most definitely dead. He stops at the open door to the room Natasha is in with two scientists, tied and huddled together on the floor. Frowning, he asks, “Hey, were there only lab guys down here?” Where the hell were the rest of the germ-warring terrorists?

 

Natasha glances over, “There were only two down here. I found the other scientists sleeping in their quarters down the other hall.”

 

Coulson chimes in quickly with, “Ceaber is clearing buildings from the perimeter inwards and securing the boat.”

 

Well shit, they were missing guards. Maybe they were sleeping in the guest building closest to the compound; it was the middle of the night. “I’m going to search the next building.”

 

Natasha doesn’t pause her work on the computer console as she says, “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

 

“Oh no hurry, take your time.” He throws over his shoulder as he starts back the way he came, cautious but as quickly as possible. “What’s the quickest route to next building?” he murmurs quietly, but the comm picks it up easily and Coulson’s voice is quick to answer in his ear.

 

“Exit through the dining hall outdoor entrance, straight past the pool and it’s on your left,” Coulson says.

 

“Copy,” he replies back.

He jogs down hallways, through the dining hall-past the dead body shoved under a table- and out onto the sprawling, manicured grounds to the main guest room building. He pulls open the front door quietly, it’s dark inside but he can distinctly smell that it’s inhabited. Sweat, stale cigarette smoke, leftover food rotting in full garbage cans and someone who’s snoring so loud he’s surprised anybody can sleep through it. He’s able to clear five rooms quietly, three are empty, two occupied but the knock out gun works like a charm, but a squeaky door on the sixth is enough to startle the experienced soldier inside, awake. Clint brings the gun to bear, firing off a round, the dart sinks into the glossy outdoor magazine lying forgotten on the man’s chest. The soldier rolls out of bed and fires back at him in a controlled panic; the thunderous bangs are loud and echo in the small room. Clint ducks and fires back, hitting the soldier who’s tangled up and struggling on the floor with the bed sheet. 

 

But the damage is already done. The loud volley of gunfire has killed his advantage of surprise. He holsters the knock-out gun and pulls out his .45 and takes cover just inside the door to the unconscious soldier’s room. 

 

Doors down the hall open and Clint shoots the first guy to lean out. The soldier drops dead, but he’s given away his general position, and the others open fire. Wood splinters apart as bullets tear apart the door frame; old stucco disintegrates as bullets rip through the thin walls. He leaps away to crawl towards the window, he has a hand on the window sill when the gunfire stops, and heavy footsteps thump towards him down the hall. He turns to shoot at the brazen soldier who pivots around the door frame, the soldier drops dead before he brings his rifle up to aim at him. Echoing gunfire erupts again, and Clint vaults out the window. 

 

His escape is observed by another soldier smart enough to figure out Clint only had one way out of that room. Outside the guest building, there’s not much cover, just lounge chairs and tables so he stays close to the wall. 

 

“Hawkeye, Widow is advancing east bound towards your position,” Coulson advises.

 

“Copy,” he replies. He’ll have to watch his fire in that direction. Enemy bullets ricochet off the stone ground near his feet from above, with nowhere to go he spins to return fire, but before he shoots, his assailant falls out the window dead, landing with a loud thud. Looking eastward he spots Natasha at the rear of the building.

 

Natasha darts back behind the building, and Clint runs the opposite direction to enter it again from the front. There’s a high risk of cross fire clearing the building from both ends, but they’re both good shots and he trusts her. 

 

Her deep voice whispers in his ear, “You know you could have mentioned you needed backup.”

 

He clears the front entrance again and takes cover. “I did, didn’t you hear my call through the Force?” He can hear her fire off two rounds, from his earwig and down the hall, the dual echo is annoying.

 

“No, the Force doesn’t exist for Captain Kirk.” She says.

 

He ducks out from around the corner, gun raised at the sound of boots crunching over debris under hard rubber soles, the soldier falls dead with a thump. “How are you Captain Kirk?”

He hears choking and then the pop of snapping vertebrae before she answers back. “Kirk has his own ship and minions.”

 

“So does Han Solo,” he says. He re-checks the rooms on his end. “Clear my way.”

 

“Clear on my end,” she confirms. When they meet in the middle, she says, “Coulson we’re going to clear the other buildings.” 

 

Coulson’s calm voice replies back, “Ceaber is moving in your direction, the other two main guest building have been cleared.”

 

Natasha looks over after she changes the magazines on both her guns. “Copy, we’ll start on the smaller buildings.” She looks over at Clint. “Solo only had one minion, Kirk had more. Does that mean you’re Chewie?”

 

“Fuck no, I’m Luke. Wait, why am I now your minion?” he asks, as he follows her out to the other building.

 

“Fine, I’m the Emperor then.” Natasha takes point, stalking up and into the other building. “I’m going to rule the galaxy.” 

 

Coulson pipes in before Clint has a chance to reply. “Sorry, the position of Emperor has already been taken.”

 

Clint chuckles. “Guess that means your Leia,” he says to Natasha.

 

They make their way over to what looks the laundry building. Natasha unlocks then pushes the door open, then holds position while Clint enters, gun raised and sweeps the room. Natasha enters behind him. “I’m not Leia, I’ll be Yoda,” she retorts.

 

They exit the room, and go to the next door, same routine. “You know she was a Princess right? Power, money, short like you.” He jokes back.

 

“Didn’t Leia and Luke make out?” She asks, humor lacing her words.

 

“It was a semi-long peck on the lips. Why you gotta make shit weird?” Fucking George Lucas, he thinks. 

 

Natasha just grins and makes her way out of the building. They spend another hour on the premises before they meet up with Ceaber’s team. The mission ends perfectly and they’re back in New York two days later. 

 

 

 

Three months later in June, Clint and Natasha leave Shield late one evening, walk a few blocks away, hail a cab and head into east Harlem. It’s sort of been their thing lately, finding new pubs and lounges to hang out in when they have a few hours to kill. He enjoys the mini adventures; it feels like making up for lost time when he was stuck on the end of a leash for so many years.

 

The pub they stop at is pretty plain on the outside, grey and black facade, fading grey door and a small, aging sign hanging above. Inside isn’t big, longer than it is wide, brick walls, old wooden bar top, a juke box in the corner, dart board, cheap drinks and filled with loud, twenty-something year olds. It’s dark like most other pubs, giving it that intimate, social atmosphere. There’s old, round, wooden tables dotting the outer floor space with a few booths along the far wall. The booths are all taken, the place is pretty packed, but Natasha leads them to a table near the juke box at the back wall but opposite the bar. 

 

The table is sticky and smells of sugar and booze and his chair is wobbly, with one leg shorter than the rest. “Trade me seats,” he says.

 

“How about you get us drinks, and I’ll think about it?” she says, completely straight faced.

 

Clint pushes his chair back to get up. “Uh huh.” He’s stuck with that chair for the night. He walks over to the bar, dodging a flying elbow from some blond girl talking animatedly, hands swinging drunkenly to illustrate her story. 

 

He waits in line behind a couple of guys and a group of girls ordering shots at the bar. People crowd in around him, waiting to get drinks or chatting, as the place is pretty packed. A tall guy with dark hair in front of him steps back, precariously holding three drinks clutched between his hands and chest, and tries to slip past him. He squeezes past, looking up to give an apologetic shrug of his shoulders and a smile, while sliding against Clint’s side trying to move through the throng of people. Clint moves over as much as he can, which is maybe half a foot and beyond that, doesn’t give the guy a second thought as he feels him move behind him. That is, until some drunk college kid falls back into Clint, who takes a step backwards to catch his balance, which knocks him into the tall guy. Cold beer splashes down the back of Clint’s shirt. And holy fuck, not cool!

 

“Shit, I’m so sorry man,” Tall Guy says, sounding honestly apologetic.

 

Clint grits his teeth; the cold beer soaking small patches of his t-shirt to his back is annoying, but not something that he can be totally mad about. He gets it; the place is crowded and full of drunks.

 

He turns just enough so he can look up at the guy. “Nah, it’s fine, shit happens.” Tall Guy looks to be around thirty, with short, dark hair and stubble lining his strong jaw. Clint waves him off, when it looks like he’s going to say something else and then turns back around, not giving the guy another thought. The girls in front of him pound back their shots, giggling while they cling and pull each other away from the bar, like baby ducks in a row. He orders drinks and carefully carries them back to the table, where he finds Natasha talking to the attractive couple at the next table. Judging by the way they’re leaning close to Natasha, smiling and laughing, they’re totally smitten with her.

 

He places the cocktail he got for her, a mix of red and white swirls in a stemmed glass with fruit garnishing the rim, down beside the other cocktail in front of her on the table. Of course someone else already bought her a drink. She’s flawless in social situations.

 

She ends her conversation and turns back to him, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “What is it?” she asks, indicating the drink he got her.

 

Clint shrugs his shoulders. “Lava flow, bartender said it was popular tonight.” He points at her other drink. “What’s that?”

 

“Mimosa. “ She pushes the glass off to the side.

 

“From that couple?” He asks.

 

She shakes her head. “The young guy over there in the booth with his friends.” She tilts her head in the direction of the group of people in question and then continues, “The couple behind me mentioned a city wide scavenger hunt that’s structured like a race, we should do it.”

 

They talk about the race, Clint’s definitely interested, it sounds like fun and something neither of them have done before. Well, not for shits and giggles anyways, he supposes it’s a bit similar to work. He finishes his overly colorful drink and dutifully gets up to get another round. 

 

He gets halfway to the bar when Tall Guy intercepts him; Clint stops and looks up at the man who is well above six four.

 

Tall Guy smiles and thrusts out his hand, “Hey, I’m Richard.”

 

Clint politely shakes Richard’s hand, putting the effort into being more social. “Clint.”

 

Richard shakes his hand, letting his fingers linger a moment too long before letting go. “I was hoping I could buy you and your girlfriend?” He pauses there, waiting for a reply. 

 

Richard’s body language is relaxed and open, definitely non-threatening or smug, so Clint replies, when normally he wouldn’t. “Friend.”

 

Richard smiles and continues, “A drink. I feel bad about dumpin’ beer all over you.”

 

Well, huh, this was a first. “Uh, it really wasn’t a big deal, I’m nearly dry.” He gives the guy a small smile.

 

Richard clasps one big, warm hand gently on Clint’s upper arm. “That’s great, but I’d still love to buy you a drink.” Richard’s brown eyes gaze intensely down at him; his narrow pale lips stretch up over straight white teeth in a brilliant smile.

 

Clint glances quickly down at the hand on his arm, long fingers curling around his bicep and how Richard’s leaned into his personal space. And now Richard’s friendliness makes sense.

 

With a slight frown, he shakes his head, pulling his arm away. “I’m not interested in your drinks, you don’t owe me anything.” He steps to the right. “Excuse me.” He makes his escape to the bar, not quite sure what he’s feeling, though it’s nice to be able to say no. 

 

He walks back with two differently colored cocktails and sits down across from Natasha, pushing her pink drink towards her. “It’s a daiquiri.”

 

She takes the drink, but stares at him with that speculative look he’s not terribly fond of. “Not your type?” 

 

He picks his Appletini up by the fancy stem and slowly sips, not making a move to answer.

 

She waits, slow seconds tic by before she says, “You do realize he was hitting on you, right?”

 

He glares, “Of course I do, I’m not retarded.” He puts his glass down on the dirty table top. “You’re welcome to chase him.”

 

She tilts her head just a fraction, “I don’t think girls are his type,” she pauses, before continuing, “Are they you’re type?”

 

Clint sits up in his chair a little bit, an unconscious movement to create some space from her. “Are you asking if I’m Gay?”

 

She leans forward, planting her elbows on the table again, a half smile playing on her lips, her body language relaxed and friendly. “No, I’m more interested in why you’re afraid of women?” Long, dainty fingers play with the rim of her glass. “At first I thought it was me.”

 

Well shit, this just took a sudden left into uncomfortable-Ville. He leans forward again, not wanting their conversation over heard. “I’m not afraid of women,” he says defensively, lowly. And he’s not. He’s more afraid of the consequences.

 

“Alright, how about aversion?” she concedes.

 

He opens his mouth to reply, but snaps it shut without a sound. What point is there to deny it? Natasha is eerily observant. She’s also the first to ask about it. “I had an unusual, isolated childhood.” 

 

“Home schooled by nuns?” She asks, pushing but with an effort to keep it light.

 

He barks out a laugh, glances down at his drink before shrugging his shoulders in aloofness. “Actually, I was homeschooled. After I was...uh, taken in, but my tutors weren’t nuns.“ His smile dies, there’s a heavy pause while he tries to find the right words. “You know, I do realize it’s a ridiculous anxiety.” He says quietly.

 

“I never said that. I asked why,” she says doggedly.

 

He’s surprised she’s not dropping the subject; they don’t usually pry at each other. But he feels like he needs to answer her, because she asked and she’s family, his safe haven and only friend. “I was too young and shy to try to talk to girls before...I was adopted.. that’s not really the right word. Anyway, when I was a little older, I realized I wasn’t allowed to, uh, go near them. So it was just safer to stay away from any kind of interaction.” His mind tries to drag him into memories, but he shies away, the smell and sounds of the bar are a good distraction. He instead focuses on Natasha.

 

She leans back in her chair with her drink in hand. “So how do you know you only like guys?”

 

He shrugs his shoulder again, “Because I like cock?” 

 

Natasha’s face splits into a big smile. “True, cock is rather nice.” She takes a sip of her Cosmo, “But no interest in women at all?”

 

He turns to look at the people crowded into the bar, at the variety of women laughing, flirting; brunettes, blonds, tall and short. Honestly, he hasn’t given it much thought once he’d been trapped within Drummel’s walls. And much less after his beating from talking to those two girls at the office when Drummel subsequently told him he was sterile...it was pointless, embarrassing....dangerous. And the times he’d masturbated, he thought of nothing but his hand on his dick, it was safer than the thought of any other hands. 

 

And then Coulson had rescued him, taken him away from the freezing snow and stinging cane. His indoctrination into Shield had been all consuming, being suddenly surrounded by so many people had been overwhelming. Instead of friendship and community he was besieged by antagonism for all his social blunders. He didn’t want anything to do with anybody he met. He’d only wanted Coulson, not sexually at first; that had come later. And now neither man nor woman stirred his desire except for Phil.

 

He looked back to Natasha. “No.” 

 

 

 

The following year in March, Clint walks through the front doors of a prison in Budapest with Natasha at his side, along with the other, regular prison staff. Natasha’s blond wig is styled into a tight bun and she’s wearing a standard issue nurse’s uniform with plain white running shoes on her feet. Clint is dressed plainly, but professionally, he hands over his credentials to the admitting personnel when he gets up to the desk. His info comes up as the new prison counselor for the foreign, English-speaking inmates. 

 

He’s escorted to his small office up on the third level, while Natasha goes to medical on the second floor. His escort leads him to his new desk, where the overweight man picks up the large stack of beige folders sitting on the corner, walks back to him and drops them into his arms. They stare at each other a moment before his escort places another thin stack of stapled papers together on top.

 

The short, fat administrative guy sighs disinterestedly, “Prisoner files and instructions of welcome. Lunch at twelve, one hour.” He says with heavily accented English. 

 

Clint nods his acknowledgement, but the other man flaps his hand up like he’s waving off any further conversation before strolling out of the office without a backwards glance. Clint waits for the office door to swing shut before dropping the folders back on the desk. “Think I’ll actually have to council anyone?” He asks. 

 

Coulson’s voice answers in his ear. “Doubtful.”

“I could fake it.” He says, grinning to himself. He looks around the office; it’s minimally furnished, one desk and two chairs on either side. He looks at his watch and sighs, he’s got all morning to kill, before he can sneak into the wardens office while the man’s at lunch to steal a few files, while Natasha ‘off’s’ a few prisoners with a lethal dose of whatever she’s using while the prison goes through their annual prisoner health exams. Apparently, according to Shield intelligence, the local Mafia is using the prison as a cover for part of their smuggling operation. Moving information along with prisoners in and out of the prison, criminals who are being freed by switching them with other people snatched from the street or thugs being punished by the mob. Left to rot inside, who’s going to believe one more inmate screaming that he’s innocent? “I’m going to have a walk around,” 

 

“The warden’s office is further down the hall,” Coulson says. 

 

Clint takes a single folder and tucks it under his arm before leaving his office, best to look like he could be working. He strolls down hallways acquainting himself with the layout of the third floor, which is mostly administration and staff occupied offices. Second floor is the small recreational area, mess hall, medical, and cells. First floor; is showers, cells, laundry, and more cells. 

 

He makes two laps around the third floor killing time until noon, then a lap around the second floor and then down to the first. The prison is old, the cells are tiny with too many men crowded into them, the hallways are narrow with low ceilings, the cement floor is cracked and dirty and the windows are small and barred. The whole structure is deteriorating brick and cement, old iron lock-and-key gates between cell blocks and floors creak and clang with every use. It smells of bleach and sweat, piss, and mold. Clint can’t wait to get the hell out. If everything goes to plan, they won’t be here much past noon. Hopefully Natasha is able to dispose of all three of her prisoners by then, or he might actually have to fake council someone. 

 

A guard passes him with a large German Sheppard walking on a short leash by the guards side. The dog growls at him as he passes. “Fucking dogs,” he murmurs. No respect at all, he doesn’t understand why dogs don’t know he’s the superior species, whatever happened to ‘sixth sense’ and all that shit people loved to talk about? 

 

Natasha whispers in his ear. “Two targets located and dosed, third should be sent to medical for his ‘check-up’ shortly.”

 

Well that’s good news, he heads back up to his office to wait. He sits on his rickety office chair flipping through patient folders out of boredom until noon. 

 

He waits until quarter past twelve. “Heading to secure the files.” He pushes back the chair and steps around his desk and leaves his office, turns right and goes straight to the largest office on the third floor and knocks on the door, just to be sure the office is empty. 

 

A deep voice replies from behind the door, “Bejon.”

 

Fuck. Just his luck this guy was a work-a-holic. “Bejon” He repeats quietly to himself, confident the earwig will pick it up.

 

Natasha translates quickly. “Come in.”

 

Coulson cuts in, “prepare to switch to secondary evac plan.”

 

Clint opens the door, steps through and closes it firmly behind him. “Commander Miklos Dobos?” He asks.

 

Miklos is a heavy set man in his fifties with short dark hair, square jaw and harsh features. “Yes.” He answers in heavily accented English. “You must be Mr. Giroux? French?”

 

Clint scans the office, there’s a closed side door to the left, but nothing else of note to worry about. There’s a filing cabinet in the corner, a new looking computer on the desk and just Dobos in the room. He smiles, “Born, not raised.” He says, walking up to the desk to stand in front of Miklos. “So where does the Mob keep their shit in here?”

 

“Smooth.” Natasha hisses in his ear.

 

Dobos stiffens in his seat, his features twisting into an ugly snarl. They stare at each other for a few, frozen moments before Dobos lunges to the side to grab for the gun, no doubt in his drawer. Clint bends over the desk to quickly seize Dobos’s wrist tightly, twisting it as he jerks Dobos forcefully towards himself, over the desk. Papers and folders go flying to the floor, and the desk itself creaks as its shoved forward with the heavy weight of the Warden. Clint pulls until the Wardens thick neck is pressed forcefully over and onto the edge of the desk and then grabs a chunk of greasy hair at the back of his head with his free hand to push down and hold Dobos in place as he lets go of the Wardens wrist. It also effectively keeps the man quiet. Raising his knee up and over Wardens head, he drops his weight down to snap the vertebrae. It’s not a clean snap, it sounds and feels more like crunching, but it does the job. He pushes the body backwards to fall heavily behind the desk.

 

He wipes his hand down the side of his slacks, fingers still gross and slick from the man’s greasy hair. He walks around to sit down on the newer, comfortable leather chair, kicking a fallen limp limb out of his way and pops a thumb drive into the Wardens desktop computer, it’ll search for specific files to download. While it does its thing, he palms the mouse and clicks open the Wardens email, sending it to a Shield account online. 

“Dobos is down, thumb drive is installed.” He says quietly.

 

Natasha replies next “ Third target dosed. Making my way out.”

 

“Copy.” Coulson acknowledges. 

 

Well shit, this was turning out to be a pleasantly quick mission. He clicks on a folder labeled recipes, which come on now, like that isn’t suspicious. But when the file opens in the video player, it’s definitely not mission related. “What the fuck.” He blurts out with disgust, closing the video quickly. 

 

“Problem?” Coulson asks.

 

Clint shakes his head like it’ll help chase away the images. “Porn with..never mind.” What the fuck, who even thinks this shit up to film it?

 

“I don’t want to know. How close are you?” Coulson responds.

 

Clint glances back at the little box at the bottom corner of the computer screen that shows the download progress of the thumb drive. “Maybe ten more minutes.” He gets up and walks over to the filing cabinet and opens all the drawers and skims through everything, but it all seems legit prison stuff.

 

Turning back to the computer he pauses when he hears footsteps approaching, with nowhere to go he waits while someone knocks at the door. There’s a pause and then another couple of knocks. He doesn’t move until whoever it is walks away. Letting out a sigh, the thumb drive in the computer finally blinks red. Leaning over he pulls it out and fits the cap back on and shoves it in his pocket before moving towards the door, but stops when he hears footsteps coming back again. Fuck.

 

He turns to the second door, it’s not ideal as it leads into another office which he can hear is occupied, but he’s sort of out of options. He smoothes down his shirt, and rights the cuffs on his sleeves, and walks through the door. A small, whip thin man typing away at a computer looks up, glasses skewed on his face. Clint smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry” He says as he quickly walks through the office to the outer door. “Guess I went out the wrong door. First day.” He can hear the Wardens office door opening in the other room. He needs to get out quick.

 

Foreign shouting echoes loudly in the other room just as he gets his hand on the handle, but he doesn’t look back. With one foot across the threshold, the glasses guy behind him starts yelling. 

 

“I’ve been made.” He hisses, as he looks left down the hall to the two guards running towards him. Ah fuck, and things were going so well. The Wardens office is at the end of the south-western hall, the prison is rectangular with the main halls running along the perimeter; the south hall is still empty.

 

“Creating a distraction, I’m opening cell doors, be prepared for company.” Natasha says.

 

Coulson calmly adds, “Diversion in five minutes, detonation on the outer east wall.”

 

Clint bolts up the empty hall and down the stairs to the second floor, voices following him from behind. A loud alarm pierces the air in a deafening clamour as he hits the fifth step. “Is that a fire alarm?” He huffs, nearly to the bottom of the stairwell.

 

Natasha sounds enthused when she responds. “Kitchen fire.” 

 

Well fuck, she’s quick. He slows to a jog and goes left around the north-western corner, but slides to a stop when two guards turn towards him, guns drawn. “Fuck.” He curses; leaping back around the corner, the loud barrage of gun fire joins the cacophony of noise around him. His options are narrowing, he backtracks thirty feet to one of the halls that divides the second floor into cell blocks and leads to another stairwell which goes back upstairs. A shudder shakes the building when he’s nearly to the stairwell, but it’s the small group of running inmates rounding the corner towards him that causes him to slow. Double fuck, now is not the time to be dressed as one of the staff. Nowhere else to go, he pushes his legs harder, faster and barrels past two large, rough looking inmates and dashes up the stairs. He can smell smoke wafting its way up from the kitchen fire now. From behind him; the sounds of fighting between the guards chasing him, and the loose prisoners is music to his ears.

 

When he hits the third floor again, Natasha says, “They’re evacuating some of the staff, get out quick.” 

 

He stops and looks back down the stairs; it’s the fastest route down to the first floor, but too many human obstacles. The stairs back near the Wardens office will have to do, maybe now with all the mayhem, he can make it out with the other staff without being noticed. 

 

“állj meg” A deep, demanding voice screams the command from up the hallway. 

 

He looks up at a guard steadily aiming a black pistol at him; then again, his cover might be totally blown. He raises his hands into the air at shoulder height, palms open; there’s nowhere for him to go without the possibility of being shot right now. “Go,” he says under his breath. “It’s not a do-able exit for me.”

 

The guard jogs over to him quickly, gun still held up and steady and yelling at him and pointing at the ground. Clint waits tensely until the guard is only a couple feet away. He ducks and weaves to the side, grabbing the guard’s wrist-holding the gun- tightly, grinding delicate wrist bones together while jerking it downwards. He grabs the guards other shoulder and pulls, jerking the man towards him and drives his knee hard up into the guards soft stomach. The gun goes off, but it’s aimed towards the floor. He tightens his grip again and twists the guy’s wrist until he feels it snap, the bones popping out of place. The guard screams and sucks in pained gasps of air like a fish, curling over the damage to his diaphragm and useless wrist. Clint yanks the gun out of his hand before the guard completely collapses in a heap to the floor. 

 

He stands up and quickly checks the rounds left in the magazine, the loud echo of a single shot from down the hall is nearly drowned out by the fire alarm still clanging away, but the bright burst of pain in his side is overwhelmingly sharp and clear. He whirls around, dropping to a knee and fires at the first dark object he sees. The guard leaning out of an open office doorway, slumps to the floor.

 

Fuck, now what, he thinks, clamping a hand down on the fiery ache in his side. He hears dogs barking somewhere below him, the smell of smoke is getting thicker and he can distinctly hear more screaming. Dogs barking......he gets back up and bolts down the hall and into the first vacant office he finds, leaving the door slightly ajar. His side aches terribly, his shirt and waist band of his slacks already damp with blood. Pressing his hand harder over his wound, he strides over to the desk, yanking out all the drawers until he finds somebody’s bagged lunch; apple, cake in a plastic container, bottle of vodka and two sandwiches in Ziploc baggies. He dumps one of the sandwiches onto the floor, pulls the thumb drive from his pants pocket and slips it into the bag, running bloodied fingers along the moulded top to seal it closed.

 

“Hawkeye, be advised armed reinforcements have arrived on premises.” Coulson informs him curtly. “What’s your status?” His voice carries a tinge of worry.

 

Clint toes off his shoes, pulls his shirt off, tearing buttons in his haste and fuck does that pull something awful on his side. “Copy. I’m on my way out. Meet you at rendezvous Beta-Koda.” He waits for Coulson’s “Copy” before pulling his ear bud out and slipping it into the Ziploc bag as well; rolling it into a tight ball and wrapping a rubber band from the desk around it, he drops it on the floor. Unbuttoning his slacks with slick fingers, he kicks them off along with his briefs, takes a moment to breathe in deeply before reluctantly shifting.

 

The god awful pain as his guts move and change around the bullet still lodged in his side punches a wail past clenched teeth, the sensation of his flesh tearing and shrinking around the open wound is fucking awful. His wail morphs into high pitched whining as his body transforms into his wolf, he collapses to lie panting on the floor. Shifting is normally smooth and quick, like stretching out muscles after you’ve been sitting awhile, it felt good. But injured, it’s fucking painful. He heaves himself up, side burning fiercely, gathers the Ziploc bag in his mouth so none of it is showing and limps out of the office in a stiff trot. 

 

He makes his was down to the first floor, avoiding the smokiest hallways and as many prisoners as he can, noting an absence of guards, he wonders if they’re re-grouping somewhere. He trots towards the exit, and sure enough the guard presence gets heavier the closer he gets. He slows to look around at the men, he needs an escort. He walks stiffly into the lobby waiting room, tail slowly wagging. A tall, blond guard spots him and leans over slapping his thigh. Clint’s ears perk up and he wags his tail a little higher, the tall blond calls out to him in Hungarian, Clint’s not sure what he’s saying, but it certainly looks like ‘come’. He walks over and sits in front of the blond, who pats his head, digging the fingers of his free hand though the fur around his neck, probably looking for a collar. 

 

The blond guard straightens up, talking to another guard and then looks back down at him and slaps his thigh in that universal sign language for come. He follows the guard through the throng of armed, uniformed men and out of the lobby and past the first door towards the exit. He concentrates on keeping his gait even, the last thing he wants is to be shipped off to the vets or shot for being injured. Who knows what the standard operating procedure was for injured mutts in this country.

 

He stays close to the tall blond, following him past the front door into the small court yard outside and towards a dog handler standing at the first perimeter gate. Clint follows and sits at the blonds side when they stop, waiting while the two argue, the dog handler is shaking his head, but his tall guard shakes his head in return, pointing towards the prison then back at Clint. They argue a little more until the tall blond shrugs his shoulders before turning to leave. Clint watches expectantly, but the blond leaves without any indication Clint should follow, no whistle, no eye contact, not even a slap on the thigh, so he stays. He looks instead at the dog handler, who unfortunately is looking back at him suspiciously. Clint wags his tail in the hope of looking obedient and friendly, his side aches with every inhale. He needs to be patient; he needs medical aid and something soft to lay down on, he needs the god damn gates to open. 

 

The prison entrance yard is a flurry of activity, men yelling, alarms wailing, machinery humming and the smell of burning wood and car exhaust. The outer gate clangs open as a large military truck slowly drives in with a second personnel carrier close behind. The first truck stops at the inner gate, which two security guards rush to open, the hinges groan loudly as the gates swing wide. Clint bolts, racing past both open gates as the two trucks drive inside, he doesn’t know if anybody- the other dog handler or the security guards call out to him- but nobody tries to stop him. Who cares if one of the prison’s dogs runs away, right? 

 

The prison is weirdly, centrally located within the city, but it hastens Clint’s escape into narrow streets and dirty alleyways. He slows to a painful trot a couple blocks away from the prison, when the sound of the prison alarms, fire trucks, and police sirens begin to noticeably fade. He passes quite a few pedestrians and shop owners standing on the street or hanging out of windows staring curiously or worriedly in the prison’s direction. Nobody pays him much notice.

 

His side throbs with the beat of his less than steady strides down the sidewalk; he looks at the street sign up ahead on the street corner and sighs tiredly. The safe house is still blocks away; he swallows dryly around the ziplock bag sitting heavy on his tongue and impeding his breathing. The streets aren’t busy, but he still darts around people either walking or loitering on the sidewalk. The clacking of his nails hitting the pavement is a continuous, familiar beat in his ears in an unfamiliar environment.

 

Getting to the safe house is only one problem, he can’t arrive as a wolf or naked with Natasha there. Detouring to find clothes would take time, and effort....God, his side hurts like a bitch. His muscles are getting painfully tight as his body tries to stabilize and protect his injured side. It’s getting hard to breathe. Every inhale and expansion of his diaphragm is agony; his gait is shifting into a more noticeable limp as he tries not to move too much on his injured side.

 

He ignores the deep purr of a car engine getting louder as it drives up behind him, there’s been lots of cars up and down the streets, but the sound of its wheels slowing down on the uneven street as it nears him perks his attention. Wouldn’t it just be his luck if it was animal control? He slows to a walk, ducks his head and wags his tail, assuming a friendly, unthreatening posture, before looking over. The car is black and shiny, the tires are clean with silver rims and thankfully familiar. The tinted, passenger side window winds slowly down as the car stops inches away from the sidewalk. Clint stops and side steps closer, raises his head, to confirm who’s in the car.

 

“I don’t make a habit of picking up strays, but need a ride?” Coulson’s warm voice calls out to him though the partially opened window.

 

Relief nearly makes his legs wobble; he stiffly pads over to the car, side pulling painfully with the movement. He looks into the window at Coulson who’s leaning over to pull the latch on the passenger door and push it open. The door clicks open only a few inches, but it’s enough for Clint to wedge his nose in and nudge it wider so he can squeeze in, which sucks as the door rubs along his injured side. He stumbles as he heavily clambers up onto the seat where he pauses to drop the wet Ziploc bag into Coulson’s lap, before staggering into the back seat. He slumps tiredly down on the firm leather bench, mouth agape panting for much needed air, fuck he’s thirsty. And hot, but sort of not, it’s weird. The back of the car is blessedly shaded, the darkly tinted back windows blocking the sunlight. He vaguely hears the car door being pulled shut.

 

“Where are you bleeding Clint?” Coulson asks, worriedly.

 

Clint looks at the seat he brushed past, it’s smeared with strands of black fur and blood. And god dammit he doesn’t want to shift again. But there’s no way around it, not with Natasha back at the rendezvous point. He closes his eyes and lies flat on his uninjured side, taking a deep breath he shifts back, flesh stretching and organs reshaping, it burns just as bad as the first time, everything whites out and he can barely hear his own gasping and moaning. Naked, sweating and bleeding on the now sticky leather seat, the too cool air conditioned breeze on his bare flesh, is a stark contrast to moments before. 

 

“Fuck.” Coulson spits out before steering the car back onto the road and picking up speed, he’s thrust back into the seat as Coulson steps on the gas. “How bad are you hurt?” Coulson asks. 

 

Clint looks down at the small hole high up in his abdomen on the right side; it’s been bleeding a lot by the amount of slick red smearing his body. He covers it with his hand again. “Uh, it’s not good, upper right side.” He catches Coulson eyes briefly in the review mirror. Blood and sweat coat the leather under his body in an uncomfortable slick slide of gross. Clothes, he needs to dress. There’s a small black go-bag on the floor that he recognizes as his, he hooks a finger in a strap and pulls it closer. “You pulled my bag out of the trunk already.” He says, feeling grateful and a bit surprised. Dragging the zipper open he awkwardly starts pulling out his extra set of clothes, trying to move as little as possible.

 

Coulson answers, “Of course. I figured without opposable thumbs it might be rather difficult for you.” The tone is light and teasing, but it sounds forced.

 

“Right.” Talking feels like too much work.

 

Coulson flips his cell phone open and places it against his ear. “Widow, current location?” There’s a pause. “I’m ten minutes from you, hold where you are, I’m on my way.” He lowers the phone and presses another couple buttons before raising it again to his ear. “Whiskey, I need immediate Evac with medical on board.” There’s a pause. “Copy, thirty-five minutes.” He thumbs it off and slides it back into his pocket.

 

He gingerly turns to lie on his back, knee’s drawn up, and feet resting on the arm rest in an attempt to elevate them and drag his damn pants on. Its slower going than he’d like, but he gets them buttoned and zipped. He slips his feet, sockless into his boots and makes the effort to tie them, each foot planted one at a time to the ceiling of the car, so that he doesn’t have to move much. That done, he drops his feet back to the arm rest and says fuck it to the shirt or coat, he doesn’t think it’s unreasonable to be topless with his injury. Hopefully Natasha won’t think it weird. He lays there, both hands resting heavily on the wound in his side, trying to staunch the bleeding and just concentrates on breathing. The car comes to a quick stop which rolls him forward on the seat, it hurts. 

 

The passenger door opens and Natasha hops in, pulling the car door shut behind her. She pauses a moment before moving between the seats to hover above him with a frown. “Zigged when you should have zagged huh?” She asks. 

 

He smiles, “Nowhere to zag. Next time, I get to be the nurse.”

 

Coulson interrupts them; “Hold on, Barton, twenty minutes and we’ll have you in the air.” Voice tense and knuckles white with the tight grip he has on the steering wheel.

 

Clint closes his eyes, starting to feel drowsy. “Yes, Sir.” He opens them again when he feels a warm hand gently pulling at his wrist. He looks up at Natasha crouched halfway between the seats with him, holding what looks like his black t-shirt folded up in her hand. He clenches his teeth and moves his bloody hands away from his side, and grunts as she presses the shirt heavily down onto him. She places his hands back over his wound to hold the make-shift bandage in place, adding her own warm hands to the back of his own. 

 

She looks down at him, “You changed?” She asks, voice incredulous.

 

He stares at her surprised and confused a moment before he remembers he’s half dressed. “I’m like superman, but my phone booth is the back of a car.” He appreciates her effort to keep things light.

 

Her eyebrows furrow a fraction. “Superman never gets shot.”

 

The added weight of her hands hurts, but the warmth is nice. “Batman?” He asks.

 

She shakes her head. “You’re Robin, I’m Batman.” 

 

He smiles as his eyes drift shut again, his side burns terribly but he’s with his family, he’s hurting but he’s not alone. He drifts into the splotchy darkness behind his eyelids.

 

When he wakes up, the smell of antiseptic and bleach is unsettlingly strong. He can hear people breathing close by and the steady beeping of machines. Further away the sound of shoes squeaking on tiled floor and unfamiliar voices are disconcerting. His throat is dry and his nose itches, but he’s warm and strangely comfortable. He opens crusty, sticky lashes to peer into the room, it’s dark except for a single light coming from somewhere behind him. The wool blanket covering him is white, the bed narrow and there’s a curtain surrounding it.

 

“Are you thirsty?” Coulson asks, his voice is husky and low to his right.

 

Clint turns his head, smiling dopily. “Hey, Boss.” Ugh, his mouth is pasty and dry and so gross. “Yeah, water would be good.” He snakes a hand out from under the blanket and takes the small plastic cup that Coulson holds out to him. 

 

Coulson smiles, leaning forward to clasp dry fingers around Clint’s arm. “Natasha just left to grab something to eat. Shield will be here tomorrow to transport you home. We got you to a hospital nearby; you’ve been here just over a day. You’ve had surgery to repair the damage, the bullet rattled around a little bit. We need to get you back quickly so you can receive proper medical care.” He pauses. “You had me worried Clint.”

 

He feels woozy and disconnected; the drugs they must have him on for pain are good. The calloused, warm fingers around his arm feel nice. They’ve spent less time together lately, the last three months have been hectic, but Clint’s not entirely sure that’s the reason why. So he’s happy to savour the moment and ride the dopey cloud the drugs surround him in. “I heal fast.” He pries open heavy eyes.

 

Coulson squeezes his arm; brows furrowed together, he says “Not that fast.” His expression is pinched, jaw tense as he maintains eye contact a touch too long.

 

Clint looks down at Phil’s hand on his arm; he’s not sure what to say to that, the moment feels awkwardly intimate. His head feels muddled and slow, not the best time to try to interpret emotions. But Phil’s hand doesn’t linger long before it’s pulled away. He looks back up, disappointed with such a short interlude, until he belatedly notices the sounds of footsteps. 

Natasha walks in carrying a tray of coffees and a pastry box. “It’s about time you woke up.” She places the tray onto a side table and hooks a chair leg with a toe to drag it in closer and sits down. 

 

Clint breathes in the aroma of coffee. “smells good.” He’s still holding the plastic water cup, and shakes it gently at Natasha. “Trade?”

 

She scrunches her nose in distaste. “Ugh, Hospital water? No, thanks.” She pries the lid off one of the paper cups, and dumps in a couple packages of sugar and stirs it slowly, before securing the lid back on. She folds the spout back and takes a delicate sip. “besides, doctors orders, no caffeine for you.”

 

He just lays there watching dumbly, too muddled to come up with something witty. He blinks, once, twice; before fingers pull the water out of his hand, presumably placing it somewhere appropriate, but he doesn’t bother to look, letting his eyes close. The drugs lull him down into the hospital mattress, warm and soft. He drifts into an ocean of black behind his closed lids, floating and bobbing with every breath before that too fades as he slips into slumber.

 

The trip home is a blur, he sleeps on and off, safely tucked onto a stretcher. They keep him drugged throughout the flight and the next couple of days, which he’s endlessly thankful for. He stays in Shield’s infirmary for a week, before he’s allowed to go home on bed rest. He lies around for the first few days, watching TV and reading but it’s boring. Natasha and Phil both come by when they have time, which is great, but the days are quiet. By the end of the second week, he’s feeling pretty good, the bruising is basically all gone, his torn muscles are healing quickly which improves his mobility. By the third week, he’s basically healed and his strength and endurance are almost back to normal and he’s allowed back to work on desk duty. By the end of the month he’s completely healed, but to keep appearances he’s kept on light duty for another three weeks, and back to work the following week. 

 

 

 

 

The following months turn into another year, which are a mix of long and short missions, periods of bored inactivity where it’s either paper work or training courses. Coulson leaves for assignments without them often, once notably to babysit Tony Stark. Fury promotes then both a security level and they start branching out into solo work. Natasha’s specialty in infiltration and espionage are especially useful, and she’s sent out most often on her own. 

 

The world seems to get weirder when Clint follows Coulson to New Mexico to investigate a hammer stuck in the dusty earth where it apparently fell from the sky. The locals make a redneck party of it, but when they arrive to take control and clear the area, they’re surprisingly easy to disperse. Shield’s speed and concise construction of temporary operating bases always amaze him, and the one Shield builds around the hammer doesn’t disappoint. 

 

He’s amused to find the hammer’s owner is a spectacularly muscled man; whom turns out to be the embodiment of Nordic mythology. And has the pleasure of watching an honest-to-god, alien fight in the small desert town, which is a pretty good end to the dusty operation. 

 

Sometime after that, Coulson leaves on an errand and comes back with a frozen; Captain America and a small cube device. It marks a point where Clint see’s more of ‘Coulson and less of Phil’ They have dinner less often; spend time together on the sofa for movies or reading-even less so. They still have sex, but Clint waits until he’s invited over. It feels wrong to use the key he still has when things feel so out of sorts. He has no idea what to do about it, it’s not like they’re dating....he’s still not sure what they are. Maybe after all these years it’s normal to drift apart. He’s read or heard that somewhere. It’s been what, nearly four years since they started fucking, and five before that. 

 

Clint waits patiently, as Coulson leaves to organize and oversee Steve Rogers’ return to consciousness and re-introduction to modern day New York. He sits and listens when Coulson talks about Captain America, because it’s time they’re spending together. He smiles and nods when appropriate, but Coulson’s excitement leaves him feeling inadequate and nervous. 

 

His handler seems to be wholly infatuated over the guy. He supposes having your childhood hero come back to life is a pretty good reason to be ridiculously excited. He tries to get on board with all the bluster and buys a Captain America bobble head and gives it to Coulson at work. Coulson smiles brightly and places it on his desk, with a warm ‘thank you’ leaving his lips. Clint shoves his hands into the pockets of his black, Shield issue jacket, while mumbling ‘you’re welcome’ before turning to leave. He thinks he’s missed his mark though; the bobble head leaves him feeling hollow.

 

Eventually Steve Rogers demands to be left alone, to apparently figure his shit out, which leaves Coulson disappointed and Clint wondering what’s next.

 

 

Shortly after Clint’s twenty-ninth birthday, he’s assigned to protection slash surveillance detail at the newly built Pegasus facility. AD Hill is head of operations, with Coulson overseeing everything else, but who is often off site. While spending numerous mind numbing weeks, days and hours babysitting Selvig, he decides he’s going to stop being a pussy and talk to Phil. Things feel stretched and awkward; overly polite words dance between them now, where there was once easy banter. He catches Phil looking at him sometimes with an indecipherable expression. Or start to say something, pause and continue with something work related. Clint wishes he was better at this, most of the time he feels like a man on a boat at sea without paddles. 

 

He waits for Coulson to come back to the facility. He sits and waits; watches the scientists scuttle around between screens and equipment, fawning over their energy cube. Day in and day out, sleep, eat, watch and repeat. It’s almost a relief from the boredom when the tesseract starts to misbehave. The fine blond hairs on his arms stand on-end, and a shiver snakes its way down his spine. The Tesseract flutters and sparks, and he’s only half paying attention to Fury and Selvig, eyes focused on the blue cube in the middle of the room. At Fury’s command, he comes to heel at the man’s side; they walk and talk, coming to a stop near the ominous power source. 

 

Blue light flashes brightly from the Tesseract, the ground shakes threateningly and everybody stops. It’s eerily quiet except for the Cube. The increasingly deep and high pitched sounds continue to increase in volume. He watches, frozen to the spot as a blue and white beams of energy shoot out of the cube until it forms into a glowing sphere. The ball of blue light coalesces larger until it shatters, bathing the room in a backlash of blue light that whips the air around.

 

He stays obediently at Fury’s side, eyeing the strange man kneeling in the center of the room. Everything is still, it’s the calm before the storm and he tenses as he watches the agents slowly approach the unknown intruder. Fury shatters the quiet, commanding the lone figure to drop his spear. It’s the moment everything shatters into chaos.

 

The sound of gun fire, men screaming, and flesh thudding into solid surfaces as Agents are thrown about is deafening. The smell of ozone and something unfamiliar overlaid with shorting wires, sweat and fear fill the room. He draws his pistol and shoots, misses and leaps out of the way of returning fire. The stranger is inhumanely quick and before he knows it, surprise stuns him when the stranger grabs him. The grip on his arm is strong and cold; he stares into the steadfast gaze of the man holding him and freezes, completely spellbound. He’s only momentarily aware of the spear tip pressing into his chest....before everything calms inside him.

 

Loki steals Clint’s unwavering loyalty, body and soul. Clint loves his raven haired master, with his beautiful face and piercing eyes. Loki is powerful in mind and body and speaks with a honeyed tongue that’s both cutting and despotic. Loki is proud and regal, he is the epitome of a powerful leader, and it calls to the very core of Clint. He’s proud to heel at Loki’s boots, to bare fangs to both protect and hunt. It’s complete servitude without fear, with clear rules and confident commands. 

 

When it’s brutally torn away from him, it leaves him gasping for air, disoriented and confused. A weeping chasm of all consuming loss splits his chest from within. He’s shaky, feeling lost and alone. He clings to the normalcy Natasha represents and is relieved when he follows her into battle. He fights alongside the group Fury has banded together to save New York from fucking Aliens. It’s fast, hard and thrilling; he pushes his muscles and draws heaving breath through barred teeth, focuses on the moment. He looses arrow after arrow until the God who took him to heel, lays on the floor in surrender. He’s pissed and despondent, at the same time; he’s confused when he looks at Loki. Resentful that Loki could steal him away so completely from Coulson, own him so thoroughly. Yet, a part of him misses that unassailable bliss. Everything feels fucked. Maybe... maybe when he talks to Phil, they can fix whatever is broken between them, and it’ll quell the aching, hollow pit of wrongness in his gut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, things are going to take a serious nose dive into some dark shit from here on out.

The sweat was cooling under his vest, the air conditioning in Fury’s office sending shivers up his arms. Coulson was gone. No, not gone...dead. Clint stared at the ground, his boots were scuffed, a buckle had been torn off at some point. He’s cold and tired, yet oddly numb; everything feels hazy, not quite real. Like the carpet has been pulled out from beneath him and he’s still mid-fall, waiting to hit the floor. 

He listens to Sitwell shifting behind him by the door, the soft rustle of fabric weirdly loud in the momentary quietness of the room. The solid, light tap of Fury’s finger hitting the top of the desk catches his focus again. Fury’s strong voice fills the void, “Agent, it’s a shit situation all around and loosing Coulson, well, it fucking hurts. But shit doesn’t stop even when the world takes a beating from Aliens.“ He pauses a moment. “Now, to be blunt, because of your colluding and murdering with Loki, you’ll follow Sitwell over to detainment, where you’ll receive medical attention and submit to psych evaluation and additional assessments and tests. I need to know what the fuck he did to your mind and if you’re completely out from his control. We’re gonna fix all of this Barton.” 

Clint looks up at the strong, confident posture of the Directors dark figure, the squared shoulders, chin raised and steady hands. Detainment? Yeah, that’s probably where he belongs right now. He wonders what will happen if they can’t fix him, if Loki’s hold on him is still hiding, nestled away in some dark recess of his mind. “Sitwell, Sir?” Is what tumbles out of his mouth.

Fury calmly assesses him. “I’m assigning Sitwell as your handler.”

Clint nods slowly, throat feeling oddly tight, the hazy fog threatening to lift at the mention of Sitwell as his new handler, it had never crossed his mind that he’d be working under anyone but Coulson. “What about Romanov?” Would they separate them now too? 

“You’ll be better informed after you’ve been cleared.” Fury sits unmoving, leveling that patent one eyed-stare. “You’re dismissed.”

There’s a swish of fabric behind him, and then Sitwell’s fingers curling above his elbow. “C’mon, Barton let’s go, I want Medical to take a look at you.”

What, they couldn’t answer one small question, it’s not like he was asking for sensitive information. But he knew it didn’t matter how he asked again, Fury wouldn’t budge. Instead, he followed the tug at his arm, muscles aching, he quietly follows the command. His back twinges painfully as he forces himself to move, not realizing just how tense he’s been, standing here. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, none of this is right, fuck maybe he’s having a horrific fucking nightmare. Sitwell lets go of his arm when they pass through the door, Clint automatically settles a pace behind and to the left of him, mind switching to auto pilot. 

The walk to detainment is a blur, but he catches the scent of blood, sweat, gun powder; the myriad smell of city destruction from dirty uniforms as he passes people. Sound blends together, muttered words of conversation, thankfully makes no sense to his fuzzy mind. They walk further down halls until they pass medical and take a left, through another door and another short hallway. He dutifully stops as the heavy door to his cell is opened and follows Sitwell inside, who stops and turns to face him.

“Barton” Sitwell, says gently but firmly, I need you to hand over all weaponry that you still have on you, and then your uniform.” 

Clint complies, unclipping his empty quiver and handing it over, his bow and hand gun had been taken earlier. He shrugs when Sitwell looks at him expectantly. “I used everything else.”

“Uniform please.” Sitwell says, indicating towards his boots.

“When can I see Natasha.” He needs to talk to her, needs to apologize for Coulson, needs to know if they’re still good.

“Later, I’m not sure when.” Sitwell replies. 

He clenches his jaw with a momentary surge of anger. Breathing deeply, he bends down slowly, muscles protesting and starts the tedious task of unclipping and unlacing his boots, toeing them off and handing them over to Sitwell, followed by his pants, tac vest and shirt. Standing there in only his underwear, he straightens and looks up, waiting. Fuck its cold, goose bumps pucker his arms and legs and he shivers. Why is he cold?

Sitwell gathers Clint’s uniform and motions towards the sturdy, narrow bed along the wall draped in clean white sheets. “Go sit on the bed and I’ll let the doctor know you’re ready.”

Legs hanging off the edge of the firm bed, palms pressed down beside his thighs, he stares at the bruising on his legs. His left is dotted all along the outside from just below his knee, all the way up to his hip, the right isn’t faring any better with a large black blotch covering the front and side of his upper thigh. They could have happened at any point during the fight, but slamming through that plate glass window into the building had hurt like a bitch. The sudden impact had shocked him before he’d even hit the floor. 

The click of the door opening catches his attention and he sluggishly looks up, even that feels like too much effort. In walks Sitwell, who is followed by a tall, older man carrying a small tray, filled with things Clint vaguely recognizes. The Stranger stops uncomfortably close to him, smelling like alcohol, blood and dust. Where is Dr. Molsa?

The Doctors’ eyes appraise him from top to bottom slowly. “Agent Barton, I’m Dr. Green, I’ll be handling your case while you’re here for observation. Are you injured anywhere more grievously than what I can see? Abdominal or neck pain, headache, dizziness, any nausea?“

Clint’s ribs and back ache, the cuts along his hands and arms sting hotly, his head aches from behind his eyes to the back of his neck, but it’s all superficial in the long run. He’ll heal. “No.” He says.

Dr. Green rests the stainless steel tray down on the small table beside him, and Clint morbidly looks over. “No need to worry, just going to take some blood before I take you for a full series of scans. Mostly unobtrusive, all you need to do is relax and sit still for the next hour. We’ll get them done quickly so you can rest.” 

Clint doesn’t so much as twitch when Dr. Green slides the needle into the vein at the inside of his elbow and fills several vials with blood. He obediently presses down on the small puncture with a finger and cotton ball when he’s told to do so. 

“All done with this.” Dr. Green says. 

Sitwell hands over a black bundle of clothes. “Here, something to change into, though I suggest you shower first.” He points to another door in the room. “Bathroom is in there.”

Clint clutches what looks like sweats, shirt and a hoodie to his lap, they feel soft under his dirty fingers. He gingerly walks to the small bathroom, uncomfortably aware he’s being watched. Shutting the door, his shoulders droop in what he knows is going to be a short lived reprieve. He showers, trying to be quick, soaping his hair and body with hands that feel heavy and shaky. Toweling off sloppily, he pulls on the clothes he’s been given. They’re warm and soft, but don’t completely chase away the cold that’s settled inside him. 

Exiting the bathroom he follows Dr. Green out to the Diagnostic Imaging department, with Sitwell at his side. He zones out during the tests and doesn’t remember passing out on the table during the last scan. He wakes to Sitwell calling his name and is escorted back to his detainment room, where he’s left with a curt ‘get some sleep’.

Alone, standing in the middle of the room, the feeling of wrongness sits heavy in his chest, a shaky, heavy weight that makes his stomach knot with a burning nausea. He shuffles to the bed, crawling under the single blanket to curl up on his side. Tired, cold and stressed the-fuck-out, maybe when he wakes, it’ll be to his own bed and Phil one floor above him. It hurts to wish-for, to want it so badly, knowing this barren room and the grit still under his nails is real. Where was Natasha? Was she pissed with him? Could she forgive him for the mess he’d made? Phil was gone. How do you get past that? 

Loki.... was a whole other mind fuck. But at least nobody else knew of his conflicting thoughts....feelings about Loki. It didn’t feel like the God was in his head anymore, and that’s what he’d be telling Shield. He would tell them about the complete lack of control and some of the things he’d done, the things that were pertinent. Everything else was personal, shit he wasn’t dealing with right now. He’d sweep all that rubble into a neat little pile and dump it in a box. Repression was a wonderful thing. Eventually the exhaustion kicks in and drags him under.

The days blend together, he’s taken down for daily scans and tests, they tell him they’re looking for any changes, anomalies, anything that could indicate he’s still compromised. He just shrugs, but sometimes some of the things they do, some of the tests don’t make sense in that regard. On one occasion Dr. Green cuts into his arm, he asks why, and the thin answer given is “It looks like a piece of debris is stuck under the skin.” And for no discernible reason, he wakes up on the scanning table to soreness and a wound stitched closed on his thigh. Another day he wakes to two broken fingers splinted. When he asks about it, Dr. Green tells him it’s all a part of their testing for lingering effects of Loki’s magic. After that he starts balking at going anywhere alone with Dr. Green. It seems to have the desired effect of stopping the blackouts and injuries. 

Nobody tells him about Coulson’s funeral, he assumes there must have been one. 

Dr. Caplan from the psych department comes every second day and asks him questions, mostly about Loki and about the battle, repeatedly asking about things Clint doesn’t answer. Dr. Caplan gives him a bad vibe, he’s not sure why, it’s not like the guy looks or acts creepy. Dr. Caplan always dresses in a well fitting black suit, plain black tie and glasses. His hair is nicely styled; his polished, rich accented voice is approachably professional, even when asking about Clint’s childhood, and professional relationship with Coulson and Natasha. However, every time he enters Clint’s barren room and opens his mouth, Clint just wants to slap the glasses right off his fucking face. Instead, he sits as still and quietly as he can and proceeds to mostly ignore the Psychologist.

On the thirty-second day of his detainment, a week after the bones in his fingers have fully healed, he’s released into Sitwell’s care. Sitwell escorts him down to his new room, they pass people in the halls but he avoids eye contact and ignores everyone. They stop at a doorway about a third of the way down hallway A. Sitwell keys in the digits to the numeric lock on the door. “Your code is at the top of the first sheet in your folder.” He looks over, catching Clint’s eyes. “You need to read everything in your folder, it’s important you know the rules of your probation.”

Clint takes the thin folder from Sitwell. “Yes Sir.”

“In you go then, everything you need is in the bag but should you have any questions, ask me. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight.” Sitwell claps a warm hand on Clint’s shoulder, squeezing once before leaving. 

He flips through the folder and discovers he’s leashed to a laundry list of restrictions. He’s not allowed anywhere with restricted access. He’s confined to base, except between the hours of twelve and three during the day, during which he can leave; but no further than a two mile radius. He’s also not allowed weapons and there’s a list of things he’s not allowed to have in his room. He’s also given a list of approved menu options at the mess. 

Clint eyes the black duffle bag sitting on the bed, undoubtedly filled with only the acceptable items he’s allowed to have. The room smells of tobacco, cologne and stale sweat from the last occupant, layered over with bleach from the cleaning staff. The layout is the same from the first room he had when he first joined Shield, it’s small, barren and this time, windowless. It’s awful.

He so badly wants his old place, the cozy apartment a floor beneath Coulson’s. But maybe that would be worse, knowing Phil was never coming home. His chest feels tight, he clenches his jaw against the dry burn in his throat, it’s hard to swallow. Was their building even still intact? Or was it destroyed during the battle, maybe a flying alien whale flew through it, or maybe the hulk used it as a landing pad. Nobody has told him anything. Not about his place, or where Natasha is and why she hasn’t been by to see him. Not even to tell him when Coulson’s funeral was being held. Did they bury him already? They must have, it’s been weeks since the invasion. 

His knees bend and he slowly slides down the back of the door to sit on the floor, wraps his arms around his legs and rests his head on his knees. If their building is still standing, than Shield probably already cleaned out Coulson’s apartment and sent what was valuable to his next of kin. Coulson’s parents? He has no idea; it’s not a topic they ever discussed. Maybe, maybe the funeral was small, family and friends, private. Maybe they took his handlers body back to his folks. It’d be pointless to ask about it now anyway, it was over and done with. They didn’t tell him for a reason, maybe it’s better not knowing why. Either way, whether their building is intact or in pieces, all of Coulson’s stuff is gone, the few things they collected together, the tangible memories....gone. 

Time passes slowly, uneventfully; he listens to people walking up and down the hall, the murmurs of conversation. The yellow light in his room is a constant, the absence of a window keenly felt. By noon he’s antsy to move, to leave his room, walk somewhere, do something relatively normal, have a conversation...god he wants Natasha. He’d give anything right now to see her, the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her voice, he wants the last piece of family he has. He admits to himself that he’s desperately lonely, his heart aches.

Door code memorized, he leaves and heads over to the mess for lunch, dressed in his black cargo pants, boots and blue t-shirt covered by a light weight black zip coat. Other than this, he has workout clothes and a few more blue and black Shield insignia shirts. He passes a few people in the halls, but avoids eye contact; keeping his shoulders squared, his gait measured and easy, feigning nonchalance he doesn’t feel at all. He doesn’t know what to expect from them, how they’ll react to what he did, he wasn’t exactly loved by everybody before all the shit went down. 

As he enters the mess hall there’s a slight-but noticeable to his sensitive hearing-short lull in conversations within certain tables, which makes the little hairs at the back of his head stand up. Maybe this was a bad idea, his nerves thrum with muted tension, but he doggedly steps into line, grabbing a tray. 

“Hey Barton, its funny seeing you here, kinda thought you were sitting in a cell somewhere. Or at least fired for murder, not that helping Loki wasn’t shitty too.” 

Clint doesn’t have to turn around to know its Donner, the guy he trained with and knocked out all those years ago. Agent Donner, who has never passed up an opportunity to harass and badmouth him to anyone who will listen to his shit. Donner elbows Clint in the side, moving to stand next to him, irritated that he’s being ignored. “You know I actually had money that you were locked up somewhere, but here you are and I’m out twenty bucks”

Fuck this shit. “Only twenty?” He puts his tray down on the counter. 

Donner interrupts him before he can continue. “Hey, why don’t you come sit at our table, there’s space. Henley died a week ago from his injuries during the ‘Carrier attack.” 

Clint makes a show of looking at where Donner’s friends are sitting at the table near the back of the room then turns back to face the other Agent. “Huh, one down five to go.”

 

“You fucking cunt!” Donner exclaims vehemently.

 

Clint narrows his eye and turns fully towards him. Donner is a mouthy little shit, but still leans back, away from the obvious threat. However, being so public must bolster his confidence, because his hand comes up to fist the front of Clint’s shirt.

 

Clint’s lips curl in anger, ‘Fuck this punk’, and he swings without much thought, nailing Donner full in the face, the impact breaking the skin over the agents cheek bone and snapping his head to the side. Donner’s body drops to the floor and Clint doesn’t pause to watch him land. He heads out of the mess before shit can really hit the fan. Starting a fight the first day he’s released isn’t going to make Sitwell happy. He ignores the commotion, and keeps his pace steady as he makes his way down the halls, expecting somebody to demand he stop, but no one speaks to him. When he finally leaves the building, he’s anxious, expecting to be dragged back in. 

 

Mindful of his restricted distance, he continues to walk, looking for somewhere to go. Near the limit of his boundary, he stops at a cafe he’s passed a few times in the past. The outside of the building is old and worn; the sign faded but still clear. He slips inside and looks around, the place is small, and eight small square tables fill the space, the order counter with a display case full of pastries at the back. It’s old but the furniture has been well maintained. And most importantly, there are only two customers sitting down, who he doesn’t recognize as shield personnel. He orders a coffee and a chicken sandwich and sits away from the big front picture window. Half way done his coffee, he goes to the counter, waits for the middle aged employee to come over. 

 

“Can I get you something else?” The man asks.

 

“My phone died, would I be able to use the cafe’s? “ He smiles, and shoves a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out his bank card. “I can pay for it.” He’s not actually sure how much is in there, but it’s probably safe to assume, not enough to buy a plane ticket anywhere.

 

The guy just waves a hand dismissively before going into the back and re-appearing with a cordless handheld landline phone. “Make it quick.”

 

Clint takes the phone, and dutifully punches in the numbers, holds it to his ear, listens to it ring once, then click as it disconnects, the number no longer in service. He hangs up and tries another number, but the result is the same. He hands the phone back, disappointed. “Thank you.” He supposes it makes sense that Natasha would have new numbers. He leaked a lot of information to Loki; Shield had to overhaul a lot of shit. But it’s still disappointing. He doesn’t have access to the computers within Shield either, maybe he can have find an internet cafe......did those still exist? He goes back to his table, sips his coffee and stays until quarter to three. 

 

He enters HQ a minute before three and heads up to Sitwell’s office to check in. He knocks and waits....and waits until he hears Sitwell call him in. He pauses a moment as he walks in to look around. It’s nothing like Coulson’s, the furniture, the smell and most importantly....Sitwell. He closes the door and crosses over to sit in the chair in front of the desk.

Sitwell clasps his hands over his lap, the overhead lights glinting off of his eye glasses, suit jacket hanging on the wall, leaving him sitting there in a white dress shirt and tie. “I hear your acclimation back into the ranks is going smoothly.”

Clint grits his teeth, he knew this was coming, but having to apologise for hitting Donner makes him mad. Why the fuck doesn’t anyone see this shit. Just because someone is a Shield Agent, doesn’t make them a god damn saint, or your brother-in-arms. He’s seen very little of that so-called camaraderie or mutual respect. They were Machiavellian and aggressive, competitive, arrogant.... “Sorry.”

“If you’re going to threaten somebody, please refrain from doing it around so many witnesses.” Sitwell says.

Clint looks up, surprised. Was that supposed to be funny? It wasn’t spoken lightly; maybe it was supposed to be sarcastic. He’s half expecting to see the older man smirk, but Sitwell’s face shows no sign of humour. Instead the eyes behind the glasses are steady. Was Sitwell serious? No speech about getting along, no enforcement of discipline? He waits a moment, but Sitwell makes no motion to continue. Was that it? “Yes, Sir.” It comes out sounding hesitant.

“Good.” Sitwell waves to the door with one hand. “You’re dismissed.”

Clint eyes him a moment longer before making a quick exit, not sure why he isn’t getting lectured for knocking Donner out, but not wanting to question why. Maybe Sitwell was aware of what an asshole the little shit was. He goes back to his room, changes and goes to the gym. By seven that night he’s sitting in his awful little room, hungry but refusing to go back to the mess hall. He’s not sure how forgiving his new handler would be if he causes to mishaps in one day. Besides, there was nobody there he wanted to see. Yup, those were valid reasons, fuck people.

He goes back to the gym in the morning and leaves at noon to go back to the little cafe where he stays until nearly three, buying food on his way out for dinner and breakfast in the morning. He checks back in with Sitwell when he gets back, drops off his paper bag of meals, goes to the gym and then back to his room; it’s a lackluster routine. 

On the third day, after checking in with Sitwell he sits on his bed staring at his workout clothes, feeling restless and anxious. He has no phone, no access to a computer and so many questions he wants answers to. He gets up and goes back to knock on Sitwell’s office door.

Sitwell calls him in after a short wait. The unexpected visit is out of their admittedly short-run routine, he steps in, trying to gauge his Handlers mood. “Sir.....I...Uh” Fuck it. “ Would you be able to tell me where Agent Romanoff is?”

Sitwell’s chair squeaks as he leans back into it. “Sure Barton, I can give you that. But first, you can go back to that little cafe of yours and get me a large vanilla Latte, a blueberry muffin and a ham and cheese sandwich on rye bread.”

Clint looks up confused, searching for signs of jest on Sitwell’s face, but again like a couple days ago, there is none. He hasn’t seen any of the Senior Agents previous humour, but maybe that easy report between them is over. Maybe he’s expected to adhere strictly to being Sitwell’s asset; it would explain his Handlers shift in behavior. He’s also not surprised Sitwell knows where he’s been going every afternoon. He pointedly looks at his watch, he already knows the approximate time. “Sir, it’s past three.” 

“Barton, are you really going to question what I tell you to do? Do you think I don’t know what time it is? Sitwell’s voice is hard and level.

Clint shakes his head, “No Sir.” That certainly went south quick. “Can I get you anything else?” Maybe offering to do more would ease his Handler’s growing irritation with him.

Sitwell pushes his chair back to bend down and open a lower drawer, pulling out two thick folders. “Drop these off at Agent Woodsman’s office before you go.”

Clint takes the folders, “Yes Sir.” And waits, not sure if he can leave before being dismissed, but it’s been customary so far. 

Sitwell’s face softens, it’s not quite a smile, but the outer corners of his eyes lift in approval. “Dismissed.”

Clint notes Sitwell’s body language before leaving, having to reassess everything he knows about the agent, trying to adapt to this change in behaviour. He drops off the folders, goes to the cafe; collects the lunch order and makes it back to Sitwell’s office in less than forty-five minutes. And again, waits outside the closed office door to be welcomed in, which he’s beginning to think is deliberate. He’s standing there, coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other like a personal assistant, which makes him feel even lower than he already does. He’s worked hard over the years to be more than....that. He stands taller, chin up and avoids looking at the other people walking past. He waits ten minutes until he’s called to enter, at which point he’s torn between feeling both relief and antipathy. He places the bag and coffee on the desk and quietly sits in the chair, carefully avoiding Sitwell’s eyes. 

Sitwell pulls the bag over and looks inside, pulling out the muffin. “Agent Romanoff is off with Captain Rogers and a small team, searching for missing Alien tech and the mercenaries that worked for Loki, who got away.”

Clint nods; it’s both a relief and makes him feel like shit. He feels bad that Natasha’s out cleaning up his mess, tracking the overzealous, fucked up mercenaries he’d recruited for Loki. On the other hand it might mean she’s not actively avoiding him. Rogers had proved himself to be a strong and capable leader during the battle. All the things Coulson had praised about Rogers, seemed to have held up in this decade, he was probably the best partner and back-up Natasha could have. 

“She wanted to visit you, but understood you were on lock-down.” Sitwell says, seeming to know where Clint’s thought’s strayed. “I’m not sure when Roger’s team will be back; Agent Hill is the lead on their mission.”

Clint knows he should say thank you and leave, but pushes forward. “And Coulson Sir? Was there a funeral?” What a ridiculous question, of course there was a funeral. 

Sitwell stares a moment before replying, “Shield held a short service for all those who fell during the attack about two weeks ago. I believe Coulson’s family had a small, private funeral for him once his cremated remains were shipped out.” 

It’s not a surprise; he knew that he’d missed everything, but it still hurts hearing it. “Is....Is my old apartment still there, will I be able to go back to it?” He’s been trying not to think about home.

Sitwell shakes his head, “That building was destroyed during the attack, partially collapsed. I think the city has already imploded it for safety.” 

There’s nothing to say to that, nothing he wants to say to Sitwell, who’s just sitting there looking unfazed. There’s nothing to go back to, his home is gone, Coulson’s home is gone. They didn’t exactly take many pictures, but there were at least a couple, something tangible. All those years of piecing things together....wiped out...except for Natasha. 

“I realize you must be bored,” Sitwell says, peeling the wrapper off the bottom of his muffin. “I’m trying to get you re-assigned to another team, which might be better for you considering the....lingering hostility from some of the other agents.”

Clint looks up from watching Sitwell throw the muffin wrapper in the trash. “Oh.” A new team didn’t sound great. “Would Romanoff be transferring over too?” 

“No, just you. Agent Brock’s Strike team is a rapid response tactical assault unit, with your greater endurance, strength and marksmanship; you’ll definitely be an asset.” He takes a bite of his muffin. “I’m just waiting for Director Fury to sign off on your transfer. He assumed you’d be joining another team, but I believe strike is a better fit for you.”

Wait, would Natasha be joining this other team? Logically he knew teams changed, people came and went, but what he’d had was comfortable, predictable. It’s all he’d ever known. But if life had taught him anything, it was that he didn’t get a say in what direction he marched, he’d put his head down and adapt as best as possible. 

“Barton”

He looks up at Sitwell who’s looking at him, waiting. “Yes Sir.” It sounds like shit, no matter how his spins it in his head. How many people were on Strike? Who was Brock? He didn’t want to work without Natasha at his side. And what about living arrangements, when would he be able to leave HQ? 

Sitwell smiles, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. “Tomorrow when you come back from your lunch break, bring me back the same thing except make it a Turkey sandwich on whole wheat.”

Clint represses a sigh. “Of course Sir.” He could do nothing but wait. Things would be decided without his input, and he would be expected to obey without complaint. And who was he to demand Natasha stay at his side, he had no idea if she would be amenable to that. Maybe her new team consisted of Captain America, who would decline working beside a distinguished hero like that?

“You’re dismissed Barton.”

Clint leaves quickly, heading back to his tiny room where he sits on the bed and tries to focus on the book he’s been reading. By midnight he gives up, his mind keeps wandering and he’s re-reading paragraphs on nearly every page. He changes into his work-out clothes and heads over to the gym. The place is quiet, only a few other people on the machines. By two AM, he slowly walks back to his room, falls into bed and tosses and turns before finally succumbing to sleep.

By eleven forty five the next morning he’s out of his room, making his way to the entrance of the building. At exactly twelve he steps out the doors and inhales polluted fall City air, not exactly fresh but appreciated none the less. It doesn’t take him long to get to his coffee shop, where oddly enough he has yet to see anyone from Shield eating at. He pushes the door open, letting it swing shut behind him and takes a look around. There’s only one other customer inside; a guy with a coffee, head down, reading a paper, near the window. The semi-sheer window-shade has been drawn down to minimize the glare from the sunshine outside. The guy looks briefly up at Clint, before going back to reading.

A familiar scent lingers in the air, he subtly breathes it in as he walks up to the counter. It’s mingled with the strong odour of coffee and baked goods; over-laid with cinnamon, the savoury smells of spices and meat. He looks up at the chalk board menu on the wall behind the counter; he inhales again slowly, letting it drift through his nose and over his tongue. It’s so familiar... maybe someone from Shield was in earlier. He feels like he should know who it is...someone he’s worked with? He waits for a staff member to come to the counter, he can hear them in the back moving around. There’s a bell on the counter by the register, but there’s no rush, they’re probably busy and he doesn’t want to piss off the one place he’s found so far, to feed him. His eyes scan the board, it’s either going to be a Turkey BLT or a Thai chicken wrap. Thai might be a nice change....was the scent from someone from his early days at Shield? Certainly not from the battle with Loki, he had a vague feeling the memory was older than that.

A soft pop from behind and the sting in the right side of his upper back startles him out of his thoughts, he jerks slightly to the side. “What the fuck” is muttered angrily as he turns around, hand going for a weapon that isn’t at his hip. His brows furrow as he looks at the man standing at the table. The angry confusion grows into concern when he registers the odd weapon held in the stranger’s steady hand. BB gun, replica air soft gun, was it real? He’s concerned but not overly worried yet, he’s unarmed but he’s strong, fast and this dude doesn’t stand a chance...His equilibrium wobbles...Wait. “Did you shoot me with...” He’s distracted, having to widen his stance to balance himself as the floor tilts to the right on him. Awww fuck, he thinks. The room and everything in it blurs a bit, but he’s absolutely sure he doesn’t know the guy with the tranq gun. Was this a robbery, a case of wrong place, wrong time?

He lurches forward, urging his legs to move, he just needs to make it out the door. Not at risk of being hit with real bullets, he has a chance if he can make it outside. Surely a passing pedestrian would think it odd and call the police if they see him passed out on the sidewalk. Or if he’s being followed, the Shield agent will come to his aid, he’s still not sure how Sitwell’s keeping tabs on him while he’s out. But his muscles weaken, and the floor tilts to the left. His knees hit the dirty tile mid-way to the door, and when were the blinds closed? He pitches forwards to rest his palms heavily on the floor. Jesus, whatever sedative they’ve used is fast.

A very familiar voice from behind the counter makes him suck in a breath while staring at the black and white checker patterned floor. “Saw you on TV, fighting aliens. Which was a surprise, on both accounts; the Aliens and that you’re alive and apparently working for the government.”

Clint’s pulse raced, the room begins to spin and that familiar scent blossoms as polished black shoes fill the corner of his vision. He doesn’t want to look up, he doesn’t want it to be true. His lungs feel too tight, he wobbles on unsteady arms and collapses to the floor, rolling onto his side. His stomach clenches with nausea from everything moving and tilting and blurring. “Theo....I thought....I thought...” His tongue isn’t working the way it should.

“Shhhh .” Theo murmurs as he kneels down.

Clint looks up with wide, bleary eyes. Theo looked the same if a little older, still handsome and well dressed if a little out of focus. This couldn’t be real, he shakes his head, but it does nothing to steady his vision or his muddy thoughts.

“Easy ” Theo’s voice caresses Clint’s ears. “I’m going to take you to your new home.” He paused. “This all seems vaguely familiar, doesn’t it?” 

Clint closes his eyes, but he can hear the smile in Theo’s tone, can picture it. “Drum..dra....mels, Deead.” He slurs. He knows he’s dead. Dead people didn’t want their toys back. Where....where was...no, that wasn’t right, his train of thought was all buggered.

“I”m aware. Shhhhhh, off to sleep now.” Theo says softly, patting Clint’s shoulder.

 

Clint wakes slowly, groggy and sore, eyes still closed. He’s sitting, head resting on his bent knee, his neck ached, as did his stiff back. A slow blink showed darkness, he was leaning, tucked against a corner. The smell of treated wood, metal and sweat permeate the area. His hands rest over his belly, the snug pressure around both wrists keeping his hands from flopping to the floor beside him. One knee bent up, the other half stretched out, the toe of his boot pressed into another hard surface. Groggy, he licks dry lips, and lifts his head up, his neck twinges but the change in position is still a relief. The darkness isn’t complete, muted light seeps in at regular intervals, slim long vertical lines all the way around from what he can see. The top of his head brushes against what his slow mind registers must be the ceiling of where.....he’s in a box. He stretches out his bent knee, the clank of metal as he boot hits the wall seems to echo overly loud in the small space. Wait, this was wrong....the fog lifts from his thoughts, the wheels of memory turn and everything comes back. Fuck.

He closes dry eyes, trying to focus on the sounds around him. A loud, powerful hum engulfed everything in ambient noise; the air smells stale, almost artificial.....old coffee, coupled with the tang of re-heated food. The ground vibrated. Voices, he can hear somebody talking, but can’t make out the words, distant and drowned out by the loud, vibrating hum.

Lethargy keeps him breathing slow and calm, the fading drugs still have him disoriented. The dull, soft thuds sound like footsteps coming towards him. Shadow blocks some of the light coming into his small space and he looks up through one of the narrow long gaps above his head as a figure looms. He doesn’t need to see the face to know who it is, Theo’s scent wafts in, musky and oh so familiar, how could he have forgotten. 

The top of his enclosure is opened and he squints, blinking sore eyes at the sudden brightness. Blearily he looks up though rectangular metal framework of thin bars. He can see overhead lighting and storage for luggage. “We’re on a plane?” It comes out soft, tired.

It’s all depressingly familiar to Clint and with a touch of hurt to his voice, “I’m in a kennel?” The tail end of the drugs softened the hard edges of his control, he feels vulnerable. He doesn’t know why he’s asking, why he’s looking for confirmation. 

Theo just smiles. “I thought you might be awake.” He says as he unlocks and lifts the metal door. “A kennel inside a travel box, somewhat similar to what zoo’s use to ship animals. Suppose to help with stress and has the handy benefit of keeping what’s inside out of view.” Theo reaches towards him, “I hear your new nickname is a shortened version of that ridiculous stage name you had in the circus. I suppose it’s fitting, if a little dramatic.”

Clint ineffectually tries to bat away Theo’s hand but the metal links between his cuffs are easily seized. “Come now, don’t be difficult.” Theo leans further over and quickly jabs the needle into Clint’s shoulder. “You’ll be more comfortable sleeping the rest of the way.” He pats Clint’s head gently. 

Shock coupled with the distressing sense of déjà vu, leaves him feeling like he’s fifteen years old again; alone and scared. Theo is a contradiction of intimidation and comfort and it’s already fucking him up. 

Theo pushes on Clint’s neck, slowly forcing him downwards. “Go on, lay down, you’ll be more comfortable.”

Clint tiredly follows the push without resistance; Theo’s usually right about these things anyway. He slumps down, lying curled up on his side in the small space. Noticing with a twinge of gratitude; he’s on a thick blanket. Drugs lull his limbs into a deeper, heavy lethargy, dull his shaky emotions and slow his panicked thoughts. Succumbing to slumber without even noticing he’s closed his eyes.

He wakes fuzzily, a headache pounds behind his eyes, it hurts to swallow, his throat is so dry, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. His eyelids drift shut over burning eyes. He shivers, his limbs feel heavy and his body aches. He’s in a small room with a barred door, grey painted, bare walls and speckled grey and white tiled floor. He’s lying on a thick, warm blanket and the lighting in the ceiling is a soft yellow. His thoughts are muddy and slow but memory comes quicker than on the plane. He may not know where he is, but he knows how and who brought him here. 

Jesus he needs water, he so fucking thirsty and his head hurts. He twists to scan the rest of the small room, there’s a sink, toilet and a large silver bowl on the floor. With a sigh he slowly pulls his knees up under his belly and twists his body over, resting on his knees and elbows with his forehead bowed to the blanket. He pauses, breathes deeply through the massive headache and the slight vertigo. He rests like that with closed eyes for an indefinable amount of time until he feels a little steadier. The pounding in his head is relentless. He sighs heavily and levers himself up onto his hands and knees and crawls to the bowl, thankful the room is so small. 

The bowl is indeed full of water; he lifts it to his dry lips. He sucks in mouthfuls until his stomach twists with nausea, and then sets it back down. He feels like shit, today is a shitty day. He kicks out a leg, catching the blanket with the toe of his boot and drags it up until he can grab it and haphazardly spread it out so he can lie back down. He drifts off, wakes up, drinks and goes back to sleep a few more times.

A bang, like something falling or slamming; echoing off the walls wakes him with a start; through the bars of his door he can see another cell door across the way and an open door immediately to the left. The sound of heavy, steady foots falls coming quickens his pulse, he shoves himself up quickly, noticing that his headache is gone and the stiffness in his body has lessened. With his feet under him, he backs a little further away from the barred door. 

As the footsteps get closer the scent of musk mixed with some sort of perfumed soap, tobacco and leather waft in as a truly tall man strolls in. Clint has to tilt his head to look up as the mountain of a man, fills his door way. The guy is huge and not fat huge, definitely taller than Rogers but same broad physique. And that’s where the similarities end. Where Rogers is blond and blue eyed, this guy is dark haired, with big eyebrows over somewhat squinty, green eyes that give him a less than friendly appearance, on a rugged but handsome face.

“You’re much smaller than the rest of the pack.” He says in accented English. He jabs a finger into the key pad beside the door, there’s a clank as the lock disengages and he wraps a big hand on one of the bars and pulls the door open. “Introductions first” He crosses his arms over his big chest. “I’m Yury, this is my house“ His voice is deep and rich, but not a baritone rumble. “Now, come along.” Unfolding his arms, one big hand claps against a solid thigh.

Clint can’t help frowning; the familiar gesture of calling him to heal is irritating. He quirks a brow, was he being called along without being secured, no cuffs, no guards. Things were looking up; the possibility of escape looked promising. He can’t see or hear anyone else nearby, but there are too many unknown scents lingering, to rely on smell. Yuri is fucking huge, but if he can get past him, this might be his best chance of getting out. He wasn’t able to do it as a kid, but things are different this time around. 

Yuri smirks and steps back a few feet. Clint cautiously makes his way out and looks around. He’s standing in what looks like a short room, or maybe a dead end hallway. There’s only the other cell across from his and one door, labelled ‘Supplies’ on the far side next to his cell. The only entrance into the hallway is single heavy looking door, which at the moment is open. The lighting is bright and the area is clean, the floor a nice grey tile and the walls painted much like the inside of his cell.

Yuri turns and starts walking towards the exit, and Clint still can’t detect anyone nearby. He’s still wearing the clothes he was taken in, along with his boots. He’s a trained agent, fuck his memories, fuck Theo, fuck whatever this was. His heart beats with nervousness he can’t shake and with adrenaline steeling his resolve; he surges forward, aiming a kick to the side of Yury’s knee, a devastating blow to the joint.....normally. Yuri grunts, but his knee doesn’t collapse, or blow out to the side, the cartilage doesn’t crunch nor do the tendons snap. Yuri stumbles and turns around, a mean, small smile thinning his lips.

Clint rallies, feinting left and low, avoiding Yury’s big swinging fist, then leaps up, going for an elbow to the vulnerable trachea; a hard enough hit would crush the delicate area, no matter how large the opponent. His elbow barely makes contact before Yury’s hand clamps around his neck, lifting him further up, Clint’s knee jerks up, in motion to kick out; hard. But Yury doesn’t stop moving either, and before he can kick out, Yury swings him hard and fast, throwing him backwards. The sudden shift in direction itself is surprising, but the impact of being thrown into the far wall is stunningly painful. He slides down to a knee, head aching, shocked; before rising to stand unsteadily, looking warily back at Yury. 

Yury strides forward like a hulking predator. “You need lesson.” He smiles, his top lip curling high to reveal a straight row of white teeth and longer than average canines. With his lower teeth nearly, completely covered by his lower lip in a very distinct grin.

Clint holds a hand up, unsure of what to do, cause who the hell can literally throw a man fifteen feet? “Look, I’m really not worth the hassle of kidnapping.” He moves away from the wall, giving himself room to move. Yury crowds too close and Clint circles left; he goes for lethal points, he fights dirty, he tries moves Natasha showed him, but Yury is too close, too big and apparently inhumanely strong. Easily slapping away most of Clint’s quickly devolving, desperate hits, and the hits that do connect barely affect the hulking man. He’s panting when Yury shoves him hard into the wall again, grabbing hold of Clint’s wrist, hard, squeezing the little bones together painfully, then jerking him forward and twisting the arm up and around until he has the appendage pinned high up Clint’s back. The move forces Clint to bend downwards, in an effort to alleviate the pressure on his shoulder joint, a big hand closes around the back of his neck and pushes his face all the way to the cold, tiled floor. 

Clint throws his free hand out, taking the brunt of his weight, instead of his nose. Dropping to his knees, he scrambles to find a way out of the hold, but Yury knees him hard in the ribs twice, then kicks his knees out from under him. Clint’s yanked forward by the neck until he’s lying prone on the floor, Yury pinning him in place with a knee on his back. He pants in strained gasps of air, the heavy weight pressing his chest into the floor making it hard to draw breath.

He feels Yury shift, more weight digging painfully into his spine and ribs, until he can feel and smell, warm tobacco and coffee breath waft over his ear. “I like it when you fight.” The hand still around his wrist tightens and twists with a sickening crunch; lightening shoots up his arm. The scream is half way out of his lungs when Yury wrenches his arm further up his back until his shoulder pops. The lingering air in his lungs is punched out in a tapering scream, his jaw clenched closed, it’s hard to draw breath back in. It’s white hot, liquid fire up his arm, all the nerves screaming murder, and he can’t breathe. The tile feels warm and slick under his cheek, too hot, everything is hot and he can’t breathe. Hiccupping gulps of air, not enough, panic piggybacks the screaming pain, he has to move. He needs to breathe but the weight crushing him is too heavy and Jesus Christ, it hurts.

Through some miracle of answered prayers, the knee is off his back and the tightness around his neck is gone; he concentrates on sucking in steady long, gulps of oxygen. The burning in his wrist all the way to his shoulder makes him shudder. Rough tugging at his hips, jerks him haphazardly on the floor, as the unyielding fabric of his pants are pawed at. He tries to brace himself with his good arm as Yury slightly rolls him over to flick the button out and yank the zipper down at the front of his pants.  
As he’s pushed flat again, He half yells, “Fuck” voice rough, as the movement jars his arm. The sudden cold under his hips has Clint whipping his good hand down, fingers searching to pull his pants back up, but they only curl against bare skin. Yury straddles the outside of his thighs and tugs his pants down to nearly his knees. 

Yury pulls Clint’s injured arm down to mid back, eliciting an agonized yell, while bringing the uninjured wrist over to join the broken one, holding them together in his large hand. Clint screams and pants, and even through the pain, he’s very cognizant of the wet fingers sliding into is ass. It burns and he’s too tense and fucked up to relax for it. Yury keeps moving, putting pressure on his wrists, and the pain shoots up his arm like shards of glass, stealing his attention, shattering any focus. He doesn’t know how many digits, or how long Yury fingers him, he’s just aware of the uncomfortable prodding, the sound of spitting and then the blunt forceful pressure of a cock shoving its way into his ass. He can definitely say that it’s nowhere near as bad as the pain in his arm. 

The thrusting jolts his shoulder, the weight on his wrist grinding bones together and quickly he’s panting for air, he can’t breathe and he’s too fucking hot. Sobs come once in a while, when a particularly hard jab punches enough air past his larynx for noise. Everything whites out, goes hazy and it’s the weirdest fucking feeling. Yury grunts loudly, slows and then stops, and all Clint can think, is, finally.

Yury releasing his wrists is excruciating, but the white space washes over him again, the static eats away some of the pain. He hears and feels the wet squelch of Yury pulling out of his ass, but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes, when did he close them? To afraid if he opens them; the fuzzy ache will go away and be replaced with the sharp agony of only moments ago. A booted foot kicks him hard in the side, and yeah, there goes some of the fuzzy, he gasps and moans. 

“Get back into your cell.” Yury stands there, doing up his pants. 

Clint’s slow to respond, he doesn’t really know how. There’s no way he can move right now, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want to find out what happens when he doesn’t. “Yes, Sir.”

Yury grins. “Good boy.” And walks out the open door without bothering to close it, it’s a kick in the face. 

He lays there, so very, very still, arms still behind his back. He lies there until the pain recedes to an ache and the tile floor begins to chill him. Tiredly, he inches his good arm to the floor, but moving it any further, tilts his shoulders and shifts the broken bones in the other, it’s just all bad. How long does he have to make it back into the cell? He looks longingly at the still open door to the room, a taunting possibility of escape. He could do it. He just has to get up, and go, make the effort. But forcing back the cotton in his head doesn’t work, his vision blurs in and out of focus. He moves his good arm up inch by inch, trying to keep his shoulders as still as possible. He just needs to roll or sit up, somehow move his buggered arm off his back, and walk out that open door. 

Footsteps echo through the open door, and he’s too out of it to figure out if they sound like Yury or not. Panic sweeps through his chest, he tries to maneuver a leg up, but his legs are tethered at the knees by his pants. Fucking hell and there’s just no more time to move. The footsteps come through the door and stop, as does a familiar scent. 

Seeing Theo standing there, while he’s lying on the ground hurt and needing help is such an achingly familiar sight, that the first thing he feels is relief. Theo was always there when shit went horribly wrong, fixed his hurts. Theo also brought back all shit from his past, and that isn’t such a good feeling. “My arms all fucked up.” It’s barely more than a whisper. He thinks maybe he’s concussed, shit doesn’t feel right.

“I see that.” Theo replies, kneeling down. “Not even here a day.” He shakes his head, and jabs Clint in the shoulder with a needle. “You’re gonna feel like shit when you wake up, Little Bird.” He pats Clint’s cheek and stands back up, pulls his phone out of his pockets and walks back out of the room.

Whatever was injected into him starts to work fast, dulling the sharp points of pain and holy Christ that’s good. Things get hazy, the floor doesn’t feel so cold anymore, the anxiety and stress mellows and his lungs loosen. He’s feeling pretty good and drifting away, eyelids heavy when a bald guy walks into the room carrying a large bag. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Fuck it. He closes his eyes, the floor feels like its swaying and everything feels so heavy.

Waking is a lethargic affair; he’s lying on his back, on something soft and warmly covered with a blanket. He opens gummy eyes and stares at a plastic cup of water on the floor to the side of him. Blinks, blinks again, closes his eyes, cause fuck he’s tired. Shifts position, well, tries to roll onto his side, but the blinding hot stabbing in his shoulder and arm, stops the movement. Ah, right. That. He looks down at his chest and gently, tugs the blanket down, little by little. His arm has been splinted and secured in a sling to his torso. He lifts the blanket up and yup, someone was kind enough to pull his pants back up. It’s hard not to notice the moistness down there though and it’s only going to get more uncomfortable when it starts drying, but that’s a problem for later. He settles the blanket back up around his chin. His back aches, as does his head, but he’s doing good considering he was literally thrown into a fucking wall and went a-round with tank and lost.

He licks dry lips and looks back to the water, slowly working his good arm over to reach for it, ends of spilling half of it on his face trying to pour it into his mouth. Swallowing hurts, his throat feels swollen and bruised. He falls back asleep, wakes and sleeps again. He wakes to the same bald guy unlocking the door to his cell, carrying a much smaller bag than the first time. 

“Evening“ The man nods to him. “I’m Losif” He says in a heavy slavic accent. There’s stubble on the sides of his head, and maybe two days worth of dark beard on his strong, angular face.

Clint tries to sit up, trying being the optimal word, his whole body aches, his head spins and his back twinges as does his right knee. 

“No, stay.” Losif holds out a hand and squats down. “Let body heal. Few days, bruising and muscle damage should be good.” His accent his heavy, but the words clear enough. He points a finger loosely at Clint’s head. “Concussed, but no problem” Then waves a hand at Clint’s shoulder. “Shoulder, no problem, fine in week, soft tissue mostly. Arm, not so good. Bones in wrist like cracked pebbles. Radius snapped; I put back in place” He pauses, “eh, what’s word in English for other bone” He points to his lower arm, looks at Clint expectantly a moment before he shrugs dismissively, giving up. “Second bone cracked. Too much swelling for cast, so you stay in splint, keep arm still, no moving.” Losif reaches into the small bag and pulls out a wrapped sandwich of some sort and four white pills. “Eat, then takes pills. If you rest and eat, bones in arm heal in maybe few weeks. We heal strong and fast, so not so bad, yeah.” Losif sets the food and pills next to Clint’s good hand then refills the water cup from the sink and sets it down.

Clint watches him warily, tense, not quite sure what to do. But Losif doesn’t linger, once the cup is set on the floor, he leaves quickly. Clint tears the plastic wrap off his sandwich with his teeth, eats, takes the pills and sleeps. There’s nothing else do to when he’s all fucked up, it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with this whole recovery process. And Losif is right, he’ll heal.

He wakes, levers himself up and takes a long piss and wipes at the mess on his ass, flushing it without looking. His next meal is delivered by a tall, dark blond with hair nearly to his shoulders, sporting a beard and goatie. He doesn’t talk, just pushes a tray of food under the door and leaves. The food is protein heavy and filling. And this is pretty much how the next three days go by.

Yury shows up next, carrying a bundle of clothes. “Come with me.” He opens the door, turns around and walks away, just like he did the first time, expecting Clint to follow.

Clint’s smart enough to follow this time, trailing behind the huge man, out the main room into a hallway and into a big bathroom, immediately to the right.

Yury drops the clothes on the counter and points to the shower “Wash.” and then leaves.

He un-straps the splint and removes the harness, it’s still a bitch getting his shirt off, even though the one sleeve has been half cut. Everything else is slow, but easy enough. He leaves the splint on, it’s just hard plastic with fabric bandaging, it’ll dry out later. He washes as quickly as he can and changes into the new clothes; jeans, underwear, socks, boots and awkwardly pulls the shirt over his head. He gets the harness back on and re-straps his splint into the sling, then shrugs into the new zip-up sweater. Tying his boots however proves to be a problem and he just leaves them as is, unlaced, but they stay on well enough. He leans against the counter and waits until Yury comes back to get him. They go back to the room with the cells and Yury goes to the room with the solid door, and pulls out fresh linen, blanket and a bucket; inside of which is two rags, a scrub brush and a bottle of cleaner. 

Yury passes over the bucket and material. “Clean your room, change your bedding.”

Clint takes the bucket and takes a step back into his cell, but is stopped when Yury grabs his injured arm and lightly squeezes. Clint looks up into hard green eyes.

“Counter, floor, toilet, if it’s not spotless....” Yury just smiles “Understand?”

Clint grunts and stiff with unease, the minor hurts are better, but his shoulder and the still broken bones in his arm are tender as fuck. “Yes Sir.” He says quickly. Yury releases his arm. He moves a step over to put the bucket down before reaching for the linen Yury is still holding. Clutching the linen to his chest he waits, eyes down and slightly hunched over his injured arm. Seconds tic by with no movement, he looks up, tentatively meeting Yury’s gaze, not sure what the fuck he’s waiting for. Yury stares back, a slight smile curving his lips. The tense moment stretches out until Yury finally grabs the cell door, swings it shut and walks away. 

He scrubs, polishes and changes the bedding every day. Every day he’s taken out to the bathroom to shower and shave, and on the return back, is given new linens. On day five, when the linen and clothes in the storage room have piled up in the laundry basket, Yury hands him the plastic hamper and takes him to the laundry room. They step through the door to the bathroom on right, they turn left down the short hallway, through a locked door which opens up into a larger area, two doors on the left along the wall and on the far side, directly opposite is a closed door. The open area is clean, a decorative side table along the wall to the right and a big hanging light, maybe a chandelier in the center of the ceiling. The first door to his left is open, the second door is closed. They go through the open door into a large room that smells of soap, fabric softener, bleach; with an underlying smell of sweat and...animal. 

Five washers and five dryers against the far wall, a long table in the middle, a shelving unit of metal cubicles with name tags attached to each one, sits along the left wall. Some of the cubicles have clothing neatly folded in them. A smaller, five tier shelving unit against the right wall holds folded towels and bedding. And on the floor on the far side of the table, a row of labelled laundry baskets, filled with clothes.

Yury turns to him, points to the machines. “Chores. Don’t leave this room.” He stands there looking at him a moment longer, a smirk raising the corner of his narrow mouth before leaving.

Clint stands there, hanging onto his basket with one arm until Yury disappears through the open door. Laundry? They kidnapped him to do household chores? Though he doubts he’s in a house, not if you need a laundry room this big, plus the multiple halls, large rooms and oh yeah, prisoner cells. He moves to place his basket on the table and strolls around the room, stopping to read some of the names on the shelves; Alexie, Losif-Who he’d already met back in his cell. Nikolai, Stephan....The names were decidedly eastern European, but that didn’t necessarily dictate his current location. He stops at the open door and peers out at the empty room?..lobby?..giant hallway intersection? Big waste of space? No guards, no nearby sounds of people, nothing. Fuck, it felt like such a defeatist move, to do nothing. Escape probably wasn’t possible; Yury had to have some way of knowing if he went roaming. 

He looks down at what he’s wearing, could he be carrying some sort of tracking device? Cameras? He looks up, around the room, looking at the corners, the ceiling, out in the hall. But the trouble with cameras was that some of them were just so small, easily hidden and virtually undetectable. He walks back to the table, grabs his basket and drops it on the floor in front of one of the washers. Throws in the sheets and other articles, finds soap, pours a dollop in, shuts the lid and hits the start button. The machine starts and noise fills the room, as does the fresh scent of perfumed soap. He walks back to the open doorway and peers out. He could just go to the end of the hall, see where that door opened into, if it was locked. But then what, what good would that really do? Should he risk further injury, it would only delay him longer if Yury broke something else.

He walks back to one of the other baskets sitting on the floor, flicks a sleeve away from the name tag. Roman. Kicks it over to the second washer and throws everything in, soaps it and turns it on. Goes back to the door, curling his good hand around the frame, leans his head out the door. He could wait it out, see what happened after today. How bad were chores really? Eventually, they’d get complacent; and a viable option of escape would present itself. He chewed on his lip and walks back to the next basket; Koyla- kicks it to the next washer. Dumps everything, soap, lid and hits the start button. Turns and sucks in a surprised breath, back tensing as he straightens anxiously, barely stopping from taking a step back. Yury stands in the doorway, filling the space, the noise from the washing machines hiding his approach.

“Wanted to be sure you were doing things properly. Reading labels, sorting colors, that sort of thing.” Yury smirked; like he already knew the answer.

Clint’s eyes widened slightly as the words registered, flickering over to the empty baskets and then back to Yury, who is slowly striding forward. Sorting colors? This was how he did laundry back home, suits and Phil’s dress shirts were sent for dry cleaning and Shield took care of his uniform. “Colors?” 

Yury stops inches from Clint, leans over to raise the lid of one of the washers, the machine stops automatically, and peers inside at the mass of clothes. “Blacks, whites and colors all get washed separately. Do they teach you nothing in the states?” 

Clint swallows, realizing he’s been set up. Taking that step backwards, only to be halted by the machine pressed against his ass, he tilts his head to look up at Yury. The door across the way is open, but he won’t make it if runs. Why set him up, this wasn’t an act of open rebellion. Fighting was a shitty option, Yury was already practically pinning him to the machine, plus he was at a serious disadvantage with one arm. Surrender might be what Yury was looking for. That was easy enough to do, a few words, a bowed head; he could be properly fake submissive.

“I’ll redo the stuff in the washing machines.” He lets his shoulders slump a little, and bows his head. Unfortunately this gives him a side view of the bulge in Yury’s clean, black slacks. Fuck. The stillness of the moment has him quieting his breath, waiting with a growing sense of dread. He knows how this is going to end. 

Yury’s big hand wraps around the back of his neck, marching him, slightly bent over, to the table. “Pick up that basket” he says, pointing to one of many on the floor. “dump it on the table.” He releases his hold on Clint’s neck, but doesn’t move away from behind him. 

Clint bends to awkwardly pull the basket up to dump the contents onto the table. He stands still, as Yury reaches around him to undo and pull his pants down, leaving them mid thigh. He clenches his jaw; the table ledge is cool along the front of his thighs where he’s pressed against it. It’s achingly familiar, submitting to this, knowing it’s the smart, least painful thing to do. Knowing the consequences outweigh resisting, he learned that lesson so many years ago.

“Be good and sort those clothes out.” A hot, big hand pulls at his bare hip, positioning him a little further back. 

The wet sound of hand on-cock, is almost kind to Clint’s ears, as is the touch of wet fingers on his ass. A hand pressing against his neck has him bending a little more, until his good elbow is propping him up on the table. His fucked up arm still strapped snuggly to his torso. He grunts as fingers breach him, tensing until he remembers to breathe, fuck he has to breathe. It burns, but it always does. Yury’s fingers are big, just like the rest of him; they push inside with that uncomfortable wrong feeling. And Fuck, this sucks, he concentrates instead on his body, relaxing particular muscles. 

Yury’s fingers recede only to push in roughly. “I said sort laundry.” His rough voice sounds amused. 

Clint reaches out and pulls a black T-shirt out of the pile, tosses it to the left, pauses as the fingers pull free of his ass. Knowing what’s next, he closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe as blunt pressure replaces the digits, forces in past his sphincter. He grunts, fingers curling into a fist. A pause as Yury spits, a glob of wetness landing on his ass cheek to be quickly wiped away, presumably onto Yury’s cock. Then the pressure increases as the big cock presses forward again. Sweat breaks out on his brow and back, heat spreading as the adrenaline sweeps through him. He can’t help the groan as Yury bottoms out. He grabs for a dark blue shirt, tosses it over as Yury pulls out, and fuck that doesn’t feel any better. He braces himself with his hand flat on the table as Yury’s hips snap forward. 

Yury’s cock sliding in and out isn’t getting any easier; the stretch is painfully tight and not nearly slick enough. He’s continually off balance as hands pull his hips back, only to be slammed forward as Yury pushes his cock deeply in. He’s not able to sort the laundry and wonders how long he’ll get away with ignoring it, it’s hard to concentrate. Another thrust shoves him forward, his elbow slides and he has to shuffle his feet to catch his balance. The movement pins his thighs into the edge of the table. But its better, he’s a little more balanced, not having to brace himself as much. He’s able to lean on his elbow and keep his hand free for the most part. He snatches a pair of jeans as Yury pulls out, Clint grunts on the hard stroke in, then slides them over to the “Darks” pile. Grabs a white shirt when Yury pulls out, braces himself on the thrust forward that slam his thighs harder into the table; which doesn’t budge an inch. Again when Yury pulls out, Clint slides the shirt to the ‘Lights’ pile. 

He breathes, remembering to relax, groans as he tenses up from the discomfort, sorts laundry. The quicker and less rhythmic Yury becomes, the harder it is to sort, his busted arm twinges as his muscles twitch and pull. The slap of flesh on flesh, Yury’s heavy breathing and grunts, and his own abrupt groans join the cacophony of noise filling the room, nearly drowned out by the washing machines. 

Yury chuckles above him; one hand leaving his hips to settle on his healed shoulder, the other hand tightening on his hip, fucking Clint faster. Yury grunts, his thrusts becoming erratic and hard. Clint grits his teeth, knowing the end is near, drops his head nearly to the table, riding the end out. Yury shouts and growls as he comes, hips finally stilling. Clint waits, stays still as he feels Yury release his shoulder, can hear the other man’s breathing slowing, thick cock still buried deep in his ass  
.  
Yury pats Clint’s hip like one would a dog. “See, when you’re polite, I’m not an unreasonable man.” He pushes his hips forward, grinding his cock deep, before pulling out all the way.

Clint stays where he is, unsure of what’s allowed at this point, but staying quiet and still feels like a safe option. He’s still clutching a shirt, he looks at it. Grey. Dark pile then, he looks over at the meager piles he’s been able to make. Whomever’s laundry this is, doesn’t wear anything colorful, mostly blacks, blues, greys and one, white shirt. Was he supposed to wash one shirt on its own?

“Go on, get dressed, you’re not done yet.” Yury says, adjusting his belt. 

Clint slowly straightens; palm still pressed flat on the table, sweater askew and pants around his thighs. Head bent down and shoulders slightly hunched, out the corner of his eye, he watches Yury adjust his pants. He doesn’t move even as Yury leaves without a backward glance, gait smooth and sure out the still open door. He waits another moment before bending; he hooks the waist band of his jeans with sweaty fingers and pulls them up along with his underwear. Clenching his ass tightly to keep the spunk from sliding down his legs, he awkwardly thumbs the button through the hole in his jeans and adjusts his shirt which sticks to his sweaty skin. He could take his sweater off, he’s hot, but it feels better with it on. Taking a steadying breath, he looks at the baskets on the floor with a slump to his shoulders, ‘chores’ were going to take longer than he thought. He moves to stop the washing machines which are halfway through the wash cycle, and sorts through the wet piles of clothes, taking a few empty baskets to sort through everything while keeping everyone’s shit separate. He looks at the clothing tags on each article, adheres to the washing and drying instructions. He keeps an eye on the door, and makes sure to never be completely turned away from it. He sits on the floor when all the machines are in use and he has nothing else to do. 

How the fuck did his life take a one-eighty nose dive from a hammer in the Desert, shit was going well. It’s hard not feel like he did when his was a kid, alone with no were to go. Coulson was gone, his home was gone, Shield had pretty well sidelined him. But he still had Natasha....She’d forgiven him about the whole Loki incident, but that was before the battle for the City, before he’d been informed about Coulson’s death. God, he hoped he hadn’t lost her too. But she was pragmatic and logical, not the type to be emotionally swayed. But with that train of thought, it’d be ridiculous to think she’d come looking for him out of some form of attachment. Would Shield look for him? Didn’t he have valuable information, information they wouldn’t want getting loose? What did he know, honestly? He followed orders, didn’t ask questions, and after Loki, everything would have been changed, updated, tossed. They probably assumed he ran. Sitwell had probably already filed the paper work, all neat and tidy like. It was probably a safe bet to assume he was on his own, again. 

He didn’t know what the fuck Yury was, but so far, he knew the man was abnormally strong and didn’t seem to sustain any physical damage. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be hurt, he’d find a way and he’d get out of here. He glances at the open doorway, hugging his buggered arm close. He could keep his head down and wait; he adjusts his weight more to the side, winces at the dull ache in his ass. It would heal; it didn’t matter, because he would heal perfectly, like nothing had happened. His arm would heal, and he’d make smarter choices.


End file.
